The Darkest Day: The Most Feminine Day
Winter Solstice. The darkest day of the year. The longest night. I’ve only begun to understand why this has always been a favorite day of mine. This day is the most feminine of days, the most yin. In the shadows, in the womb places, we decompose and create new pathways as we dream big and begin to nourish the seeds we want most to grow. Here in the shadow place we are free: free from definition; free from perfection; free from expectation. Here our imagination is bright with possibility. Everything is possible. We have decomposed the last year, maybe more, and are rediscovering the bits of ourselves that are sweet and filled with potential.
There is a sensuality to the day--the senses awaken when we descend to dark places. When you cannot see, you have to feel your way through unknown layers. You have to listen. You have to touch. You must move slowly. The darkness is the way to feeling. It is slow. It is sensual. We find out that seeing isn’t everything, that there are other ways to clarity: through the heart. Darkness requires that we awaken our intuition and instinct--that we use all of our senses to guide us to nourishment, to enlightenment, to wholeness.
Seeds and humans and any living creature are conceived in dark womb places. From the beginning, we can hear the rhythms of our family before we can see them. When a seed bursts open beneath the ground, it feels its way both down toward the rich soil around it, and, eventually, upward towards the warmth of the sun. We feel our way to growth. Our very existence is rooted in darkness--it is the familiar place. Somewhere along the line, we humans began to rely so much on visibility alone. If we can’t see it, we fear it, we don’t trust it. But what if we can feel it? What if we can feel it even, and especially, in the dark? This past year, I have come to trust the dark once again.
In the darkness, we are gestating new seeds. All we have to do is hold them, nourish them. They will grow on their own, in their own time, in their own way. We get to witness their growth and hope they mature to expansive expression. Our hopes, our dreams, our desires are undefinable, but we know them. We feel them.
Our heart dwells in the dark cavity of our chest and tries to remind us to feel, to listen, to wait, to be quiet, to go slowly as we once did in the dark. When winter comes, along with snow, the acoustics of the world quiet the vibrations of everything. Every sound becomes isolated, noticeable. And so does the beating of our heart if we allow ourselves time to rest, to be fallow for a season. If we slow down to listen to the rhythm of our own heart, we might find ourselves able to resist rushing into something that looks right or question running away from something that looks wrong. Close your eyes to expectations. What does it feel like?
On the darkest day of the year we might ask: what does my life feel like? And how can I feel my way to richer soils to prepare for the warmth and exposure of spring?
Exposure. This is what makes the summer months so difficult for me--the sun exposes so much that is uncomfortable--there’s no rest from the spotlight. It is hot and unrelenting. There’s so much growth without rest. Everything grows and grows and grows. Not that I’m complaining about abundance, but I believe in seasons, and I’m not a fan of full exposure. Perhaps this partially explains my introvert tendencies. I restore my energy in the dark places, in the womb places, where I can approach creativity without worrying about how things look, but I can be as sensual as I want as I create something that feels balanced, harmonious, beautiful, and full of rhythm.
The darkest day is the most feminine day. Full of the seeds of life, a dark place of intuitive gestation, a nourishing place. A place to be held in all of the living.
