Winter Solstice: The Longest Night’s Companion
December 21st asks for witness. Fifteen hours of dark at this latitude, the sun trying and then giving up by midafternoon. I don’t light to defeat it; I light to acknowledge it. One flame against that much night is not defiance. It’s companionship.
The ritual is minimal by design. The room darkens naturally; I let it. At full dark, one match. The first minutes feel like a conversation resumed after a year. The flame says: we know each other. The scent says: this hour counts. Leather and amber make sense—ground and warmth. Ozone at the window if the air needs clearing. No theatre. Just presence.
Solstice is honest about return. Tomorrow will be imperceptibly lighter, then a little more, and a little more. The candle becomes a small act of faith made visible—not faith that dark will vanish, but that I can endure it with some grace. Some cultures build bonfires; I prefer a single wick. The minimum viable ritual.
By morning, the wax is low. The glass holds the mark of a long night spent awake together. I clean it and set it where winter light can find it, a quiet monument to passage. The longest night will come again; that’s the agreement. I won’t try to outshine it. I’ll sit with it, count with it, and give it one small companion flame to say: I’m here.
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