The Return of the Light 🕯️

Each year, the Winter Solstice arrives quietly. The longest night. An inflection point. A moment so subtle it would be easy to miss if we weren’t paying attention. Nothing dramatic happens. No sudden brightness. No instant transformation. And yet, everything has changed. The Wheel of The Year has turned from the darkness toward the light. We can not rush the light. We simply acknowledge its return.

For nearly twenty years, my family has marked this moment together. When my children were small, we began a solstice spiral tradition in the backyard of our old house. The form comes from Waldorf education but over time we made it our own. Instead of the traditional apples with candles, we carried luminarias — small paper lanterns glowing with candlelight. That choice came from an earlier chapter of our lives when Ron and I lived in New Mexico, where luminarias line paths and doorways during winter, quietly guiding people through the dark.

Each year, as the light faded, we would gather in the backyard and begin the spiral ritual. Each person entered the spiral, marked with leaves or branches, carrying their darkened paper lantern, its wick unlit, a quiet acknowledgment that we all begin in darkness. One by one, we walked the spiral inward, following the path slowly, the lantern held gently in our hands. The movement was deliberate, meditative, drawing us deeper toward the center where a single candle burned. When we reached it, we lit our lantern from that one flame. Then, carrying our own light, we turned and walked back out again, placing the glowing luminaria somewhere along the spiral as we exited, offering our light to the world. As each person completed the journey, the spiral slowly filled with light. By the end, the darkness was held by warmth and the entire spiral was illuminated by our individual small flames. It felt both ancient and intimate, something larger than us and entirely our own. It was never about spectacle. It was about presence. It became a rhythm we returned to year after year, a way of saying without words: we are still here and our light matters.

This year, for the first time, I could not bring myself to do that outdoor spiral.

2025 was our first year in a new house. The loss of our former home was sudden and deeply traumatic. It took with it not only walls and rooms but a sense of continuity, of safety, of place. I realized, as the solstice approached, that I did not have the capacity for a large gathering or a public ritual. What I needed, what we needed, was a quiet marking of the Solstice.

Healing, I am learning, does not always look like rebuilding right away. Sometimes it take some time. Sometimes it's quiet. Sometimes it looks like choosing tenderness over the traditional. So this year, we adapted again. Instead of the outdoor spiral with all our friends, we are creating a simple indoor spiral made of yarn with just our family. It feels right for this moment. Not diminished but appropriate. A ritual that both honors our tradition and meets us where we are.

The solstice marks the return of the light.

Not all at once, and not loudly, but reliably and just enough to begin again.

This is something I understand deeply through my studio practice as well. A painting cannot be hurried into being. It asks for patience, for attention, for trust in a process that unfolds layer by layer. There are long stretches when the work feels unresolved, quiet, even stuck. To an outside eye, it might appear that nothing is happening at all. And yet, something essential is taking shape beneath the surface. Over time, I have learned that my role is not to force the image forward but to stay present with what is there. To listen, to tend the work, and to trust that clarity will arrive in its own time.

This is why I believe art is a spiritual practice.

Not because it is lofty or abstract but because it trains us in devotion. In showing up without guarantees. In honoring processes that cannot be rushed. In trusting that the light will return, even when its the darkest.

The solstice has taught me that light, like art, cannot be summoned — only received.

We do not demand the light. We make space for it to enter our lives. We adjust the blinds when life requires it, and we remain faithful to what is becoming, even in the dark.

This year, that is enough.

And it always has been.

After the Solstice Blessing

The light has returned.

The night has held what it needed to hold.

What was kindled in the dark now knows its way.

May this turning stay with me in my hands,

in my work, and in the days ahead.

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LINDA CHIDO ART

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