It was the last day of work before the Christmas break, and I desperately needed to clear my head. The air was fresh and wet but the sun was bright, the way it does on autumn or early spring days, but feelt slow and quiet reflecting winter.
I went for a walk to one of my favoiurte woodlands, moving almost without thinking, letting my curriosity take me in different directions of the woods, following some paths and then wondering off, I felt the tension being released and my nervous system calming down. The smell of the air was amazing and the colours of the trees, bushes and the grass so intense in browns, goldens and greens.
At one point, I noticed a leaf with water droplets clinging to it. I picked it up. the world was reflected: trees, sky, the scattered light, all distorted but complete, in each an every droplet. The sun intensified all colours, sudeenly on my leaf I held multiple tinny worlds, with trees, sky, earth and myself. I knew it would only stay like that for a moment, vulnerable to falling, freezing, or simply disappearing. And yet, for that short while, it held everything...
That image stayed with me...
We just celebrated Winter Solstice - the longest night, the shortest day. People have marked it across the world for thousands of years. Before calendars, before religion, deadlines, or modern expectations, humans noticed the sun hitting its lowest point, darkness at its peak, and then the return of light.
In Slavic traditions, it’s Szczodre Gody, a time when the old year dies and a new one is born. It’s about balance - darkness and light, death and renewal. Homes were cleansed, meals shared, ancestors remembered. In Scandinavia, Yule carried a similar meaning - fires burned not to banish darkness, but to endure it. Communities gathered, stories were told, the sun’s rebirth was honored. Across time and place, different names, different customs but the same understanding: darkness is part of the cycle, and light always comes back. The cycle continues whether we want it to or not. The seasons turn without asking for permission.
That brings me back to the leaf and the droplet...
It doesn’t control where it lands, how long it clings, or what will happen next. And yet, for a brief moment, it holds the world around it. Our lives feel the same. We move through cycles we can’t fully control—growth, loss, rest, renewal—sometimes painfully aware of our own limits.
The solstice reminds me of that. It asks for pause rather than push, acceptance rather than resistance. Beneath the surface, change is happening even when we can’t see it. The only thing we can really do is how we show up in the cycle: how we respond, how we reflect, how we hold our own little world together.
On this first day after the solstice night - this Yule, this Szczodre Gody turning - I choose to be like the droplet.
Present.
Temporary.
Reflective.
Trusting that even in the deepest dark, the cycle continues, and light will find its way back...