Yesterday, 5 January, I walked in Hillfield Gardens, Gloucester, in the early afternoon. Overall it was bright and sunny, despite being cold. But in shady spaces there were residues of frost.
I noticed how they changed the look and feel of these spaces for me. They became quietly exotic, as if differently blessed than the green grass in the sunlit areas. A light dusting was enough to make a difference. The three pictures below show the effects of the frost’s magic dust on a small tree, and old puddle on the path and fallen leaves on grass. All very ordinary. But the touch of frost had made them special to me in that moment. They held my attention, and enriched my day. It was an instance of re-enchantment.
I have lived in Gloucester since January 2022. Specific locations in the city affect me in different ways.
The physic garden at Llanthony Secunda Priory is one of them. It feels both open and tranquil. Earth and sky are strongly present and jointly nurturing. It is a good space for unpressured reflection.
I was in the garden yesterday afternoon, feeling my way into 2026. It was a bright moment in the day, about an hour before the still early sunset. It was cold but not freezing. I was feeling good in myself. I wondered how my life with Elaine will unfold now that we are both a little more mobile. I reflected on the dance of loving and being loved.
As a left the garden, I acknowledged my fears about the wider world. I walked to another favourite place, very close to Llanthony, where the Gloucester canal begins its journey out of the city. There is irrepressable bird life in the foreground and a (to me) liberating expanse of water beyond. My picture doesn’t tell me what’s around the corner and I am reminded to live with unknowing. I didn’t walk any further on this occasion.
Returning home, I learned the news from Venezuela – in particular the kidnapping, as I would name it, of the President. I fear this may become yet another running sore in the life of the world. Modern Druidry, my spiritual anchor, has a strong commitment to justice and peace, where each is understood as compromised by the absence of the other.
Druidry isn’t an ‘above the battle’ path. Whilst not mandating any specific partisanship, this path does assert political values and points to a willingness to engage. So, in 2026, I’m asking myself more specifically where to put my limited energies, and how justice and peace work meshes with my contemplative inquiry. Indeed, this is where my inquiry has now arrived.
Monday 29th December. It is a normal working day here, in this period between the Christmas holiday and the new year. It is still dark outside, at 6.30 am, and likely to remain grey after sunrise at 8.15. Indoors, our minimalist decorations still proclaim a festive season. For us, this lasts from the Winter Solstice on 26 December until the Christian Epiphany on 6 January.
I’ve been experiencing an energy of latency throughout this period. I live in a place of winter gestation. In the natural world, birth doesn’t come quite yet. In this quiet in-between moment of a conceivably nondescript day, I can’t see 2026. I do not discern its likely shape or character.
That’s OK. I find that I don’t do want to strain at foreknowledge or resort to divination. A day-at-a-time approach, being alert and ready for anything, seems best. I know I want to be more open to the pleasure in simple things. I want to look for spontaneous festive moments that don’t depend on custom or calendar. They are part of my resilience. They make it easier for me, alone or with others, to face the challenges that come. In good heart, I am bracing for 2026.
I’m noticing the ever-changing nature of the sky, more obvious when it isn’t overcast. Dawn on Christmas Eve has provided sights of the rising sun that the Solstice didn’t.
But what I notice even more is a changing skyscape, as the clouds continually move, interacting with the light. Such a change after the grey blanket of recent days.
At times during today’s sunrise the grey was still prominent, though broken up so that even the grey had a shape. At other times blue sky has been more evident, with the clouds diminished and wispy. I enjoy the energy of movement and change rather than any particular effect. I follow this celestial story into a bright morning.
Midwinter is part of Nature’s variety, and is varied within itself. Mornings like this make me feel alive.
Blessings of the Solstice. May it lead to nourishing and satisfying days to come.
Where I live it is Winter. I look outside our window at today’s solstice sunrise. In these first moments, I’m witnessing a slow, ordinary process, in which the daylight gradually announces itself. The effects, here and now, are subtle rather than dramatic. There’s a little pink in the sky, with a sense of darkness dispersing and a growing light. From this vantage point, I do not actually see the sun.
Nonetheless, I experience this beautiful, undramatic moment as complete in itself and also as marking the return of the light. During the coming days the Christmas festival also affirms new beginnings and the calendar begins a new year.
2025 has been hard for many people around the world. I dare to hope that 2026 is at least a little easier. I will look at ways, however small, in which I can contribute to greater human flourishing. I am glad to know that many other people feel the same way.
Today, going out, I had a strong sense of midwinter – of being in the midwinter zone, the solstice zone. The long nights contribute heavily to this sense. The sun had risen (behind clouds) at 8.10 in the morning and was due to set at 3.58 in the afternoon. For me, less than eight hours is really not long enough daytime.
The daylight experience given to me today was chilly, but not seriously cold. I found myself in a watery space, neither bleak nor frozen. I reached a point where my path ahead was flooded.
Instead of walking on regardless I decided to be still and feel in to a sense of place. It felt rich and alive, in the late morning, though quiet as well. I was glad not to be sploshing earnestly down the path, anxiously alert for slippery patches and potential hidden obstacles.
Looking around me, I saw the flooded fields of Alney Island. The water had a reflective stillness. The grass was brilliantly green. The trees were bare. It was a spacious and nourishing place to be.
After a period of panoramic gazing and awareness of horizons, I started to look down in more detail at specific surfaces, where floodwater and plant life mingle. In the picture immediately below, the fencing appears to look more influential than it is. In the final picture I find a satisfying balance of earth, water and sky. It is one face of the midwinter season in Gloucester 2025. I am glad I did not cussedly continue down the waterlogged path in front of me.
Reblog of a post by Jeremy Williams of The Earthbound Report. From my perspective, the book offers another valuable insight on the (among other evils) anti-contemplative tendencies prominent on the Internet.
There is rain on the window pane, and bleakness beyond: the closing in of early winter, with more closing in to come. It is not yet the festive season.
But the geraniums are heralds of change. Leaves may turn brown. Petals may be shed. But the insistent continuity of these flowers is a bright blessing in a grey moment, a vivid affirmation of the life force itself.
Contemplating these geraniums marks for me a distinctive point in the wheel of time, and the timeless Now that holds it.
A Scots pine in Hillfield Gardens (1), 28 November, 10.32 am. It stands out both as a tall tree and an evergreen. It asks me to look up and pay attention to it, and beyond it, almost losing sight of its deciduous neighbour. For me, this representative of the ‘eternal green’ has a commanding presence.
The Scots pine is one of the oldest trees native to Britain. It is also one of the trees associated with ogham lore (2), where the Scots pine is linked to the wisdom of overview. According to The Green Man Tree Oracle, ancient shamans of many traditions would literally climb to the top of a central tent pole or tree and “from this vantage point they could see clearly into the spirits’ inner world and come back with knowledge for the tribe or family they served” (2).
For me as for many people, the end of the calendar year is a time for reflection and taking stock. New year resolutions are a possible modern version of this process, but mine never really worked. They were overprescriptive and a way of setting myself up to fail.
‘Overview’ asks for a less driven and more contemplative approach, one more connected with Spirit. This is a good reminder as I start to wonder about how I am going to navigate 2026: divining what my contributions and satisfactions might look like as the Wheel continues to turn.
Contemplative Inquiry 