Tess Whitehurst
Midwinter: is it one of the most magical nights of the year, or is it the most magical night of the year? While the answer to this question will vary depending on which Witch you ask, there’s no denying that Yule has a deep and profound magic all its own. As the Wheel of the Year reaches its coldest, darkest point, we feel spiritually drawn to merge with our inner Midwinter: to anchor ourselves in silence, and to connect with the womb of creation, in which all is conceived, from which all is born.
And from this point of deepest darkness, the light of the world—the sun—is born anew. Just as deep sleep engenders vital energy and a quiet mind gives birth to brilliant ideas and transcendent works of art, the profound darkness of icy Midwinter coincides with the astrological rebirth of the star at the center of our solar system that bathes our world in brightness and causes all our food and flowers to grow. Once Midwinter arrives, we know that each day will bring more and more sunlight. As the wheel turns upward toward the other polarity of the year, we know our hearts and spirits, which have been buried like seeds under the snow of the season, will slowly begin to stir and unfurl as they are bathed in the incrementally increasing radiance of each passing day.
Because our bodies and spirits sense this, Midwinter sparks joy within us. The other reason Midwinter sparks joy is because the relentless cold and darkness compel us to spark our own joy and find our own warmth. We do this through ritual, tradition, song, scent, light, food, family, and friendship. And by stoking our own inner light and surrounding ourselves with coziness and beauty, we remind ourselves that we possess the fortifying, celebratory power of the sun within our very hearts.
An Ancient and Modern Deity
I grew up in the Central Valley of California, where it virtually never snows. When I was a child of six, my mom packed my three-year-old brother and me in her Ford Escort and took us to her childhood home in the Sierra Nevada Mountains for our first white Christmas. Sometime in the middle of the night, as my brother and I slept in a creaky bed that smelled like antique books, I heard a distant bell. I climbed up to my knees to peek out the second story window and was delighted, if not entirely surprised, to see Santa, his sled, and all his reindeer parked in the snow. The details are a little fuzzy, but I want to say he was checking his bag of gifts or feeding his reindeer or engaging in some other such routine maintenance. I shook my little brother, and when he woke up, I whispered, “Look!” He stood up on the bed so he could see out too. We watched silently in awe for just a few moments, with the feeling that we were seeing something we weren’t supposed to. Then we gingerly returned to our pillows, doing our best not to be noticed by the magical beings outside.
To this day, we both still remember this event. Over the years, we have periodically checked in with each other: “Remember when we saw Santa?” And the answer is always yes. That happened and we agree: Santa is real and so are his reindeer. Many have suggested or implied that we were dreaming or that our shared memory is otherwise not reliable. But this has never been the least bit convincing to us. Our minds are made up.
While this was of course December 24 and not technically Yuletide, every sabbat is a portal, and the Yule portal was open. And, like all young minds, ours were awake to magic. As opposed to adult magical practitioners who intentionally cultivate the magical consciousness through things like meditation and ritual, magic was the only consciousness we knew. We had not yet been indoctrinated to the illusion of separation, so for us there was no veil to be lifted between seen and unseen, known and unknown, “real” and “imagined.” There were no two worlds to walk between: there was only one unified consciousness, where we existed and Santa and his reindeer did too.
Santa is a modern name for a divinity with much more ancient roots. His red and white clothing and association with reindeer have caused some scholars to convincingly argue that he is inspired by historic Arctic shamans who used Amanita muscaria (the classic red and white polka-dotted psychedelic mushroom) to access magical consciousness. He is also associated with Catholicism’s St. Nicholas, who was famous for his generosity, as well as the Norse god Odin, who led the Wild Hunt, the legendary parade of spirits that soars through the Midwinter sky at night.
While some magical practitioners consider Santa to be something of a cartoon character and even a commercial invention (a 1930s ad by the Coca-Cola Company is often cited as the origin of his present-day costume), to me, his modern incarnation is only further proof of his existence. A magical spirit honored in the aggressively secular and utilitarian realm we call the modern world? That’s as stubbornly enduring as they come. Children basically worship him, and even the least magically minded adults among us invoke his name and likeness for purposes ranging from attracting more money (e.g., “mall Santas”) to inspiring generosity (e.g., white beard bedecked Goodwill bell ringers) to making our children behave (e.g., his naughty and nice list).
When you consider Yuletide’s attributes—coldness, darkness, and the rebirth of the light—it’s easy to see why Santa has been such an enduring fixture. He is warm, jolly, and generous: qualities that remind us of the brightness within us as well as the return of the sun. What’s more, Santa’s famous laugh and munificent nature are reminiscent of the Roman god Jupiter, whose corresponding planet is the ruler of sparkly, bighearted Sagittarius, where the sun dwells during Yuletide season. But the darkness of Yuletide is a part of Santa’s nature as well: he lives at the planet’s coldest, darkest point (the North Pole), and his identification with Odin (not to mention the hallucinogenic experiences of arctic shamans) reveals more hidden associations with death, transformation, alchemy, rebirth, inner journeying, and deep magical lore.
The Contrast and Paradox of Yule
Like Santa, Yule is simultaneously bright and dark, expansive and introspective, active and still. At first glance, the celebratory aspects of the season are obvious, while its more mysterious and alchemical aspects are hidden beneath its glittery surface. With the sun at its lowest ebb, the Yule season inspires us to find the light within our hearts, which in turn can cast an even darker shadow. For example, decorations and songs are at their campiest at this time of year (think ugly sweater parties, elaborate holiday light displays, and cloyingly cheery holiday carols). But having grown up in a funeral chapel family, I happen to know what the holiday season is called in that industry: “busy season.” True story. It’s not only the Wheel of the Year’s symbolic death and rebirth, it’s also the time when people literally die the most often, whether it’s from illness, loneliness, or cold.
It speaks to the unstoppable power of this stark polarity that even mainstream holiday myths illuminate this theme, and always with magical overtones. Consider just three of our most beloved holiday stories: A Christmas Carol, It’s a Wonderful Life, and The Nightmare Before Christmas. In the first, the main character is near the end of his life and is visited by spirits and ghosts. In the second, the main character is about to kill himself. And in the third, the aesthetics of Halloween (Samhain) and Christmas (Yule) are juxtaposed, illuminating the oft-overlooked darkness of the latter. It’s no coincidence that these are the stories that resonate so deeply with so many at this time of year.
As Pagans, we know that Yule is not only literally darker than Samhain (i.e., the days are shorter and nights are longer), but it’s also spiritually darker. While Samhain translates to “summer’s end” and is the transition from the light half of the Celtic year to the dark half, Yule is the deepest and darkest moment within the heart of the dark half. It’s not just that the light is dying, it’s that the light is (symbolically) dead. Solstice translates to “sun stands still,” and indeed, just for a moment, we feel its lowest ebb as a figurative death. Perhaps that’s why the playfulness of Samhain does not accompany the dark aspects of Yule. Yes, we celebrate the return of the light. But we don’t feel as warm and fuzzy about the otherworld souls of the Wild Hunt riding through the night sky as we do about, for example, sugar skulls at Día de los Muertos and dumb suppers at Samhain. To summarize, Yule is less of a the-veil-is-thin feeling and more of a the-veil-is-a-gaping-hole feeling. No wonder we want to gather around the Yule log and sing cheerful songs.
At the same time, it’s that very darkness that makes the light shine so brightly. Scrooge’s Christmas morning wouldn’t have been so dazzling if it hadn’t been for his archetypal dark night of the soul. If George Bailey hadn’t been about to jump from that bridge, his reunion with his family and townsfolk could never have been so joyous. And of course, this Yuletide chiaroscuro is also present in the most literal sense: candles, hearth fires, and holiday lights are naturally more luminous in the darkest and coldest of nights.
Honoring the Dark While Welcoming the Light
One of the most beautiful aspects of the magical spiritual path is our willingness to gaze into the darkness, even as we celebrate the light. We know that we can’t leave death out of the cycle of life, not just because we are powerless to do so, but also because death paves the way for gestation, transformation, and rebirth. Similarly, when we deny our darker thoughts and less positive emotions, we cut ourselves off from the full range of human experience. We may dull our sadness, but we simultaneously diminish our joy. You can’t numb one without numbing the other. It is only by fully allowing all of it, breathing through it, and making peace with the contrast that we find true balance, harmony, power, and flow.
At Midsummer, Yule’s polarity, we celebrate the fullness of the sun’s power. On the other hand, at Yule, we often talk about celebrating the rebirth of the light. And celebrating the rebirth of the light is great, but it’s important to also celebrate Midsummer’s polarity: the full flowering of the dark. While we may be tempted to fill every waking hour during Yule season with some sort of activity or task, this is the time when we feel most naturally like resting, listening to silence, contemplating the mystery, and going within. Just as Midsummer comes with the impulse to dance, laugh, and toast to the sun, if you look deeply, you will find that Midwinter comes with the instinct to become very still in order to salute the dark and fertile womb of creation, the absolute void, the place to which we are all one day destined to return (on the day of our death), and from which—like the sun—we are all destined to be once again reborn.
The true spirit of Yule guides us to make friends with stillness, silence, rest, death, and the dark womb of creation. If we do so bravely and reverently, this will not mire us in depression or fear but will ultimately guide us toward being symbolically reborn. Much like the Sumerian goddess Inanna, who willingly plunged into the underworld, we will be empowered to cleanse and consecrate our spirits, fortify ourselves with wisdom and power, and reemerge gloriously into the light.