With the coming of the winter solstice, it’s a natural time—an invitation—to quiet the mind and tend the heart. We live in a culture where the speed and the way life is organized can almost be described as the absence of the sacred. Everything keeps us busy. Yet there are cultures and places where life is held as sacred. Living in Bali, as I have over some years, nearly everything is ritualized. I remember riding in a car with our driver in his new Suzuki, traveling through jungle roads and coming out onto a highway. He honked his horn, and I asked why. He said, “I’m letting the gods know I’m about to cross the highway, asking them to protect everyone.” In that way, everything is sacralized.
Quieting the mind and tending the heart invites us to see anew—to see with eyes of kindness and tenderness, and also to see the mystery. To look around with amazement. As Mary Oliver wrote, “I was a bride married to amazement.” Take a look around—how did the universe make this one and that one? Each being utterly unique. It invites a sense of mystery. The word solstice means “the sun stands still.” It’s as if the universe takes a sacred pause. Our practice invites us to do the same, especially when things are difficult—to pause and take a breath. In that pause, there’s a timeless quality, and space to reflect: What really matters? What’s calling our attention? What’s calling our care? Stephen Levine used to ask, “If you only had a day or two left to live, who would you call? What would you say? And why are you waiting?” It’s an invitation to live with a sense of the sacred, to take that kind of care. In this pause, we don’t just see mystery—we also see joy. Yes, there’s an ocean of tears, but there’s also unbearable beauty: the way the world renews itself, the light in someone’s eyes. We are each that child of the spirit—to see with new eyes and say, “Wow. Amazing. Here we are. Now what beautiful thing can we do?”
There’s a teaching about keeping beginner’s mind—living freshly in this moment. That’s why we light candles at the solstice: not just because it’s dark, but to remember that we can see in the dark. We add our own spark. Don’t think that because the world is so troubled that your spark doesn’t matter. We need it. We need your love, your vision, your hands. One snowflake weighs nothing, but when the last one falls, the branch breaks. Perhaps only one voice is missing for peace to come about in this world. My teacher Ajahn Chah said the place to stop the war is here, in the heart. Our practice becomes a sanctuary of peace—not because everything is quiet, but because we remember what’s possible. Each of us has a gift to bring. A West African teaching says each child is born with a certain cargo, and their task is to deliver that cargo of goodness to the world. What is calling to be lit in your heart right now? What wants to be born? When we go into the dark, something new is born—always. You don’t have to do everything. Your loving presence is the offering. Like Ram Dass’s blanket, your life itself becomes that love.
Warmly,
Jack Kornfield