The Longest Night

Dear Wanderer,

The night, four days before Christmas, stretches wide,

a deep breath held by the earth.

The stars, quiet witnesses,

blink like forgotten candles in a world too hurried to notice.

The wind carries a chill that settles in the bones,

yet it is not unkind—

it reminds us to feel,

to be present in this season of stillness.

I step outside into the quiet,

leaving behind the hum of lists, the hum of lights.

Out here, the dark is vast and unbroken,

its silence a balm.

This is where the sacred hides,

not in the rush,

but in the pause between moments,

in the breath between words.

The solstice approaches,

its long shadow reminding us of our own rhythms:

to slow, to rest, to trust in the unseen return of light.

This is the gift we’ve been given—

to walk with the night,

to feel its weight and its wonder.

Christmas is near,

but not in the glittering windows or the urgency of the season.

It is here, beneath the stars,

where the frost glimmers like grace upon the earth.

It is in the quiet knowing

that the miracle is already among us—

in the air, in the trees, in the steady beat of our hearts.

The night speaks if we listen.

It tells us to breathe,

to hold its stillness like a prayer,

to feel the pulse of the world preparing for something holy.

Let this longest night wrap around you.

Let its silence guide you home.

Field Notes of a Wanderer