Hark, wanderers of the dark season. The veil thins as we embark on our pilgrimage in December’s hold. The Winter Solstice beckons from the page. From that ancient threshold where shadows stretch their longest fingers and daylight shrinks to a whisper, there is pause. Feel this cosmic inhale, this sacred space between worlds, as night cradles us in her obsidian arms before reluctantly loosening her grip.
Our ancestors knew this twilight language. They built stone circles to catch the solstice sun, lit fires to coax back the light, and whispered incantations into the void.