Some musings on the dying year.


Midwinter, a time of death and rebirth, feasting and merriment!

The Land lies dormant, mists rising, rivers and streams run icy cold.

The Ancients knew this time was important, marking the liminality point of tradition from one to another ~ Mother Nature waits for the return of the Sun to warm her, and now, as the year dies down, death and decay is all around us.

The trees are naked, all save the ever greens – is it no wonder the customs of bringing holly and ivy into the house are still followed?

So deep in our collective memory are these things, that for some, the true meaning of this time of year not forgotten, but re-remembered?



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