The Liminal Space of Solstice, Grief and Nature
As my 13 nights of Winter Solstice come to a close, this reflection has been patiently waiting to be released. A gentle reminder that solstice is not a single day, but a season — a threshold we cross slowly. We are still in the liminal space between what has ended and what has not yet begun.
For me, this time of year is meant to be lived quietly and with care. I began my winding down in early December, listening to what my body and spirit were asking of me. I won’t be rushing back into the world simply because the calendar has turned. This season has asked me to stay close to grief, to memory, to the places where love and loss meet. To walk slowly. To listen. To let what is no longer mine fall away, and to tend what is quietly being born.
What follows is a reflection from that in-between space — where endings soften into becoming, where grief becomes a teacher, and where the land itself has held me as I remembered how to live again. — With Love, S.
I knew journeying into the end of life with Emma, a few years before that final day would come, that it would be the ending of an era. I didn’t have words initially, but felt the deep and powerful emotions and knowing within me. Her death would mark the most significant ending since the loss of my Mom.
Perhaps it might be the end of these milestone losses that have shaped the last decade of my life. Loss inevitably will find me again, but I don’t think any other loss will shape me quite the way the loss of my family will. The finality of this era is sharp. What remains after we have lost the ones we have loved and been loved by the most? Ourselves. Raw. Imperfect. Maybe a little ragged. Vulnerable. Beautiful and whole. It’s in these moments that I have realized the only loss greater than the ones we love is the loss of ourselves. Through the trauma, grief, responsibility, caretaking, work, challenging relationships, and even the loss of our health, we can lose ourselves. I certainly did.
The last few years, I have been honouring and releasing all that I had been that no longer served who I would be, and the first half of this year, I honoured and released all that would never be as Emma’s guardian. The second half has been a quest to find myself again. Quietly rebuilding myself piece by piece. It wasn’t something I set out to do intentionally; it just unfolded along the healing journey.
You go through enough deaths, you know that as their life is laid to rest, yours continues on. The promise we made to each other is for me to live a bold and beautiful life where I return to following my heart. The responsibility of caretaking for my dearest Emma shifted into turning that energy and love inward.
Same as the day I walked my love into her final resting place, one step at a time, I would continue on without her, one small step at a time. As these steps formed into my journey, I began to follow the moments that sparked a light during the depths of the darkness and sorrow. Beginning to begrudgingly lay down my own pain, suffering, and stress as a requirement for existing.
Follow the fun became a quiet inner mantra.
The soul deep knowing to not waste the time and space I have been given in this life, to experience the deep anguishing grief and the radical joy and unconditional love between my family in spirit and myself, and the unconditional love my soul has for me as an imperfect human.
It’s without a doubt that my soul chose where I am living, during this period of my life, to be surrounded by the marsh is a gift. It’s a liminal space, much like the one I am living in, a threshold between worlds. The conscious and unconscious, life and death, energy and matter.
It’s neither solid land nor open water. It’s a meeting ground of elements: earth, water, air, and, yes, at times, a necessary fire to cleanse and release all that no longer serves, allowing for new growth to begin. There is death, decay, and rebirth all happening at once. A stillness, while so much quietly occurs below the surface. Transformation here happens through listening, observing, and peaceful slowness. Death, grief, and endings become the decay that feeds our new life waiting to be born. Never in my life have I set fire to so many things, releasing the energy into the cosmos, allowing new possibilities to flow in.
One of my favourite parts about the county is that it’s one of the main pathways for migratory birds and a winter destination for waterfowl.
The birds have been a solace for my soul during an anguishing time; they have opened my heart up to the beauty of life once again.
To commune with the birds, they ask two things of you: to open your heart up unconditionally and to be grounded while your heart takes flight.
My Solstice season has been spent in nature, with the birds, the deer, and the squirrels, with my camera on me.
I was able to live my Disney Princess dream of having the absolute most precious birds fly in and spend time on my hand, taking the time to choose their seed, crack it open, and sit calmly for a moment.
The tufted titmouse had been on my dream-to-see list, and not only did I get to see them, feel them, but I also photographed them. With tear-filled eyes, I fully experienced them and spent three hours communing with these brave, feisty, noble, and downright adorable birds.
I have fallen back in love with photography all over again, back to the way of being when I was a young girl lying in fields with horses, watching them in awe and wonder, capturing moments of their beauty, gentle and kind presence, and powerful spirits. This time, it’s with the birds.
It is a tremendous gift to be able to hold my camera, to carry it and look through it, and be able to see again, through my eyes and through my heart, more clearly than ever before. It’s a reminder to be present in our worlds and experience the beauty and magic that exists all around us.
May our lives and dreams take flight in 2026.
