The Turning of the Light

January arrives with the promise of new beginnings, but it rarely feels fresh. The calendar has turned to a new year, but the emotional residue of the previous year still lingers. The darkness dominates our days, the cold is deepening, and the magic of the holidays is behind us, leaving everything a little hollow. Beginnings do not always arrive with fanfare. Sometimes they come in stillness.

I’ll be honest, I have been heavy lately with the winter blues. Among other strange happenings in my life, loneliness tends to settle into my bones a bit more deeply in the winter. The original concept of this issue of Hearthlight was much different, and I found I couldn’t write something cheery when I felt the opposite of cheery so profoundly. How could I deceive you with an uplifting message when I had none to give myself?

When, quite by accident, while watching the news one evening, Betsy Kling said, “Wait until I show you an analemma.” What a beautiful word that was. I needed to know what it was and understand it. When I saw it sparkle before my eyes after a long Google search, I knew what I had to write about.

The sun does not rise in the same place every day. Over the year, it traces a slow figure-eight in the sky, called an analemma. It’s the sun’s signature. Right now, in early January, the sun is at its lowest point on the curve, but it’s already begun the upward climb by tiny, almost imperceptible increments. It’s a promise that change is coming, even before we can feel it.

Imagine my delight and excitement start to glow, just like the slow return of light. It can be felt in the additional few seconds of light each day, until it grows minute by minute. This is too small to register day to day, but in hindsight it’s unmistakable. It’s living proof that even slow progress still counts. Growth doesn’t announce itself, and healing doesn’t come with trumpets. It’s a quiet rebuilding that mirrors our own cycles.

The stillness of this time of year is not a punishment, but rather it’s a reset. It feels like we have lost our passion, but in truth, our passions are still there, just quieter. We are in preservation mode, gathering our strength for the high point of the analemma. Nature uses this stillness as a time to rest, giving the trees, the seeds, and the insects time to revive from a long slumber. The analemma is movement inside stillness.

The analemma’s upward turn indicates that new intentions are present, but they don’t yet have momentum. The seeds beneath the soil are still gathering strength. Even resolutions feel fragile, as if they could shatter rather than thaw out. It’s important to remember that January isn’t the climax of renewal; it’s the inflection point, the start of the upward arc.

We expect sudden clarity on January 1st, as if a switch can be flipped. We want instant gratification. But the truth is, many of us feel tired, emotionally spent, and unsure. With that comes pressure. Perhaps you’ve started the year wrong already. Maybe too much of the past is clinging to you like a thick sheet of ice. The light in January isn’t always crisp and gold on bright blue skies. The grayness of December lingers. The air feels sharper, thinner. Even the sun is slanted through the trees as if it’s tired. We’re still in winter mode, knowing we have two more months of it coming. But like the analemma, the year doesn’t leap forward; it tilts. And so, we begin again, not because everything is perfect, but because the world itself begins again. If we listen quietly, the sun teaches us to start slowly.

If you’re like me, you don’t feel lighter yet, but the light is increasing. You may not feel changed yet, but the shift has started. And progress exists even when it’s invisible—especially then. And just as the analemma varies with latitude and time of day, our personal turning will take a different shape. And each turning will be unique and beautiful, in its own time, at its own pace, and guided by its own glorious trajectory.

Trust the slight upward curve of life. Trust the unseen turning of the light. More importantly, trust that the arc is already bending toward warmth. In the meantime, try to notice the tiny moments of brightness, like little windows lit in a snowy village. Measure your progress not in leaps, but in breaths. Believe in that upward motion—even if you can’t see it yet.

Nothing stays at its lowest point forever. The light always turns in the end. And so do we.