Closing the Semester, Opening the Season
This week I finally set down my books and papers, closing the door on a semester that demanded more of me than most. Working full time while carrying a full load of classes was already a test of endurance, but when Mom’s health scare came to the forefront and I found myself completing midterms in her ICU room, the tension deepened. Each assignment became not just an academic accomplishment but a measure of resilience—proof that I could keep moving even when the ground shifted beneath me. Now, with the semester behind me and Mom’s health steadily improving, I can breathe more deeply, grateful for the lightness that comes after such heaviness.
As the pace of schoolwork fades, I turn toward my garden and the quiet time of the year. Living in northern climes, I once cherished the slow descent into the Longest Night and the morning that followed, promising the return of longer days. Even in the cold stretch of January, I could endure the frozen stillness because I knew each sunrise carried a little more light, each dusk brought me a little closer to the Earth stirring awake again.
Here in Texas, it feels a little different. The temperatures run much higher than they once did, and both I and the bees find ourselves confused and out of sorts. The garden doesn’t always know whether to rest or to bloom, and I don’t always know whether to lean into winter or brace for spring. Yet the sun still sets earlier and rises later, and in that rhythm the quiet abounds, reminding me that even in uncertainty, the cycle of light and dark continues.
As Yule approaches, I feel the invitation to pause and honor both the weight and the release of this season. The Longest Night reminds me that endurance has its place, but so does rest. Just as seeds lie dormant in the soil, holding their promise until the light returns, I too am called to lay down what has been heavy and trust that renewal is already stirring beneath the surface. The bees may be restless, the temperatures uncertain, but the turning of the sun is steady. Each moment of quiet becomes a ritual of remembrance: that resilience is not only about pushing through, but also about allowing myself to breathe, to heal, and to prepare for what comes next—with gratitude that my mom’s healing is part of that renewal.
As the year turns, I find myself planting seeds not only in the soil but in spirit. The semester’s trials, my mom’s recovery, and the garden’s quiet all remind me that resilience is more than survival—it is the courage to trust in renewal. Yule marks the turning of the sun, the promise that light will return, and with it the chance to begin again. Each seed I hold is a prayer for the days ahead: for growth, for health, for clarity, and for joy. In the quiet of winter, I honor both the darkness that shaped me and the light that is already on its way.
