Winter Solstice

Keeping time by light

Happy winter solstice.

Years ago, my artist friend Lizzy Falcon made me this drawing to mark the day. A snowman under a dark sky, arms raised, reaching toward the sun. It’s dated in the corner. “Happy Winter Solstice.” I’ve kept it close ever since, not as something to analyze, but as something that holds the feeling of the day intact.

To me, the solstice feels like a hinge instead of a milestone.

The shortest day arrives, and something subtle but decisive happens. The cold remains. The dark still comes early. But the long retreat has reached its edge. From here, the light begins its return, quietly and without announcement.

Spending time outdoors day after day changed how I experienced that turn. Running, walking, hiking, snowblowing the driveway, or standing quietly by the lake. I started paying attention to shadows, the angle of the sun, and how long the light lingered or faded. Gradually, an internal clock and calendar took shape. I began to feel the arc of the seasons in a way that felt closer to how people once lived inside it.

For a long time in human history, this wasn’t something anyone had to seek out. Life followed the light because it had to. Work, rest, movement, and survival were all shaped by it. Attention to the sun wasn’t symbolic. It was necessary.

Now, that same attention has to be chosen. Not because it’s meaningful, but because it’s easy to lose.

Living in Maine sharpens this awareness. Daylight is precious here. In winter, it disappears quickly. When it begins to return, even by a minute at a time, that minute matters. It changes how the morning feels. How long the afternoon stretches. How much light remains when the day’s work is done.

That’s why today doesn’t feel like the beginning of winter to me. It feels like the first day of turning toward summer.

I’m grateful for this day.
And for the quiet ways it reminds me where I stand.