WINTER SOLSTICE

The Simple Practice of Welcoming The Season and the Sun

This spring fed stream runs year round, even in 30-below Fahrenheit

I had plans today to light a fire outside and perform a short, high-noon ritual in observance of Winter Solstice and Yule. But as I sat drinking my morning coffee, large, fluffy snowflakes began falling and I knew I had to go to my favorite woods.

My simple practice of witchcraft allows for spontaneity, for being moved by whim or spirit, for following instinct and intuition. My traditions, Indigenous American in my maternal lineage and Slavic from my paternal side, both call me to nature.

Less than four blocks from my house, a wooded county park sits nestled in the very heart of the small village I live in. Short hiking trails follow a winding stream that flows 365 days a year, emptying into a small, recreational lake.

The entrance to walking tails in Lucius Woods.

The area was originally home to indigenous tribes of Ojibwe (or Anishinaabe) Native Americans. The earliest records of their community here date back to an 1832 encampment on a small island (not a half mile in length or width) on the lake.

The lake is fed by the many natural springs in the area. It flows into the Upper St. Croix River, on to the Mississippi River, and eventually to the ocean. The tiny village that hugs the lakeshore was platted in 1852, by white settlers who came mostly to harvest the tall, virgin timber.

On my way out of the woods I gathered a few springs of cedar, dried flower stalks with seed heads, wild sumac and some bits of birch to craft and effigy to Morana, the Slavic Goddess of Winter.

Though forest land is still plentiful here, there isn’t much of the virgin timber left. Before a heavy wind storm a few years back, the oldest and largest white pine in the area stood in these woods. I could not wrap my arms halfway around it, making its circumference nearly 11 feet.

When this giant white pine fell, it created a natural bridge across the stream. The forestry department trimmed the remaining trunk for safety.

Like the roots of this tree that still remain in the earth, this land still holds the history—the roots and the spirit of the people. Its a sacred space.

This is what my simple practice looks like, shelving a ritual to heed the call of the spirits of place.

Offering sacred smoke by burning incense in this tree cavity.

I followed the stream down to the shore, where I offered tobacco to Mother Earth, Father Sky, Grandfather Sun, Grandmother Moon, and Great Spirit. I lit incense, asking the sacred smoke to carry my gratitude to the spirits of the land. Sitting in the silence of falling snow on the first day of winter, I welcomed the return of the light during the darkest time of the year.