The Fertile Quiet
January newsletter: what grows in the darkness?
Welcome back lovely reader,
I took a well-needed break for the last two months of the year, honouring the rest I so desperately needed. Constant productivity in the winter period is exhausting, especially around the festive period. So, I hope you made time for slowness, ease, and space during what is a busy time.
With that, I’d like to invite you into this months newsletter theme: The Fertile Quiet.
The Fertile Quiet
The quiet I’m writing about today is more of an invitation to slowness, turning inward; a reclaiming of spaciousness that the shifting of the seasons provide. In November, we are betwixt between the autumn and winter; we feel the pull of the winter solstice, rearing her head on the horizon, sweeping leaves off the trees and treading them into the soil. The days draw in, with longer, darker nights. We walk by the dim, orange glow of street lamps, or the twinkling of fairy lights on shop corners. We return to our mammalian instincts, seeking out warmth by the fire, comfort in the tangle of bodies, and hearty food to carry us through the colder months. I loved this post of Eimear Burke, on the Druidic tradition of Samhain.
The Cailleach, also known as the Cailleach Bhéara or the Hag of Beara is a crone-like figure of the Celtic world. Cailleach, whose name literally translates to ‘old woman,’ is a divine hag in Celtic mythology, associated with Scotland, Ireland, and the Isle of Man. She is regarded as the goddess of the winds, wilderness, and winter.
In Greek myths, the beckoning of winter began when Persephone, Demeter’s daughter, was siezed and dragged down to the underworld by Hades. Through her grief, Demeter’s loss created seasonal winters. Each winter time, we are reliving the grief Demeter faced when she lost her daughter to the chthonic darkness.
This particular story is rooted in violence and patriarchy, as well as grief and loss. However, I don’t believe that winter has to be associated with its more negative connotations. Instead, let’s ask ourselves what becomes possible in the fertile quiet? As we are in the new year, what intentions can you make space for and call in? How can we listen to ourselves and our intution?
Now, we enter into the new year, and the cold nips at our fingers; the frost coats the rooves of houses in a pearlescent shimmer; the fire is lit in homes to keep away the cold and darkness. The title of this post is called ‘fertile quiet’. Contrary to the symbolic notions of winter as being a time of empty spaces and barren lands, I’ve found that winter hosts abundance which can often go unnoticed. This abundance can be felt in our creative processes, as we allow ideas to take root. With external slowness, we can allow for internal reflection and nourishment.
In the silence that the winter period brings, we can make space for getting to know ourselves and the world around us more intimately. What grows in the darkness? We can give our creative ideas and ourselves time to grow slowly, out of the limelight. Sometimes we need the quiet to tend to ourselves, and reclaim our strength once again.
I’ll end with a snippet of this poem by Rilke:
Rilke
“But the darkness pulls in everything:
shapes and fires, animals and myself,
how easily it gathers them!—”
What does the fertile quiet mean to you?
Hannah x
If you are new here:
Hi, I’m Hannah!
I'm a writer & creative mentor based in the UK, a regular writing contributor to the transformational learning platform, Advaya, and work within the climate space focusing on fostering resilience amongst young people. I’m also a student of Zen Buddhism, an avid reader, and a lover of the natural world.
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I resonate with the beautiful image of “the fertile quiet.” When something within is finished, or frozen, or even devoured, we are invited to pause in that moment of transition and listen to the sound of what is no longer present. Thank you for your post and your eloquent way with words.