The Longest Night

By now, we’ve gotten used to the white noise in the room—the hum of the heater, the wind against our windows, and the rumble of snow plows. I’ve been keeping the lamps in the living room off, opting instead for a small candle and the glow of the television, while I curl up under an afghan my mother made for me. We’ve come to that part of the year when darkness unspools ahead, mile after mile, like a highway disappearing into the night.

The solstice is an important night for me. It’s both a culmination and a renewal—the closing of one cycle and the promise of another yet to come. The trees outside may be bare and look dead on the outside, but under that hardened bark is life. Waiting under the frozen soil, seeds continue to grow, and bugs remain in hibernation.

Our own lives reflect and mirror this rhythm. We often carry seeds of what’s to come next, or are in hibernation for the turning of the seasons. The world doesn’t rush through the dark, so neither can we. We must wait, even in the stillness. It’s in these moments that the smallest candle can bring the most outstanding warmth.

My Sea & Sand candle has burned out, and I had to replace it with a fresh scent. Now, instead of being transported to a beach, I’m in a forest. I have carried my flame from one candle to the next.

And while I bring my day to a close, I’m reminded by my dog that it’s only seven o’clock and there’s still time for play. She brings me toy after toy, as if she’s on a mission to keep my spirits up, one stuffed animal at a time. She’s a gentle dog, keeping me on my toes and acting as my comfort.

It’s too dark out for her to be in the backyard alone, so I must suit up against the cold, too. Her nightly ritual gets me out to see the moon. And it’s in that chill stillness, while I’m waiting for her to finish up her duties, that I get a chance to breathe in fresh air and see the sky.

I’m too close to the city to see many stars; only the best and the brightest come through. If I’m lucky, I’ll see a planet or two. But the real star of the night sky is the moon. I’m always looking for her to see what phase she’s in. It’s her steady presence and swift march across the sky that reminds me that we all go through this darkness together without knowing how or when the light will return.

Back inside my dimly lit living room, my candle still burning, I contemplate the imagery of that darkness. How heavy it can feel, how thick it is, how endless and all encompassing it can be. And how, sometimes, one small light is enough to chase it all away.

There’s a reason we put candles in the window. In Colonial America, a candle in the window was a sign of welcome to weary travelers. It let them know they were safe and there was warmth within. Across cultures, candles in the window serve as beacons — metaphors for inner light, spirit, or loved ones’ safe passage. A candle at the window says, “You are not forgotten.” It’s a gesture of hope, a message to anyone outside still in the cold.

The longest night is also the night with the richest atmosphere and meaning. Clarity comes with this darkness. It is not what we endure, but what we learn to listen to. The crackle of a fire, the beat of our hearts, the breath in our lungs. These are quiet protests of life. The stillness teaches us to endure. The darkness teaches us to pay attention to little lights. The light teaches us we’re not alone.

The light of my candle is an outward reflection of my heart on a night like this. I can’t place my heart on my windowsill, but I can place my light. I can leave a message for those outside in the cold. And when I do, my light joins a thousand others that are lit, too. Each one has another reason or purpose, but together, there’s an expanse of them, twinkling together in harmony. Everyone is facing their longest night together, and this is a shared ritual that doesn’t need words.

I invite you to put your light on the windowsill with me this evening, just as the sun droops below the horizon. Together, we can say a prayer for those outside, those who don’t have a light of their own, and might need a piece of ours to keep them company. You never know who might need to see your light on the longest night of the year.