In Praise of Yule and the Winter Warlock

Winter Light

Winter Light


Merry Yule!

I confess, Christmas didn’t mean much to me as a kid. Family issues, religion and commercialism left me disillusioned. Ironically, my sensitive tendencies made me an accomplished shapeshifter when the need arose, allowing me to wear a happy kid face on the surface of a shadowy river of sadness. It wasn’t all bad, of course. I liked the music and the lights. But something was missing.

This was before the internet and the mainstream resurgence of things like Wicca, the old gods, and honoring one’s ancestry. I don’t think anyone ever explained the winter solstice to me, let alone its meaning in a spiritual context. I grew up in Houston, it was hot, and every day looked a lot like the next. A spark flickered in my heart when I touched the pagan roots of this season, even if it was only a Christmas classic about places that had snow, reindeer and spruce trees. I loved those stop motion animation specials like Santa Claus is Comin’ to Town, with the snowy mountains, elves, little friendly helpful animals, the Winter Warlock, the monster trees, the Burgermeister Meisterburger and the 1960s swirly stoner graphics. I wanted all the stories about love and light to be true, even as I buckled under the stress that came with the very thing.

So I left home first chance I got and came north. Over the years I continued my emotional salvage operation, even after I had abandoned religion, turned to the natural world and amassed a library of books about things that kept the spark alive and helped me grow into my nature like a rooting tree. But I soon discovered that many “pagan” systems, while engaging, were missing something too.

Dark Mountains

Everyone wants to be a witch until it’s time to do witch shit. I’m not talking about setting up altars, growing herbs, gathering magical tools and praying to the old gods. That’s all cool, it creates a space, an atmosphere, a place to focus one’s intentions, much like going to church is to others. It has a purpose. But I still felt empty. I wanted connection. I wanted to be the thing and lo! oh dear if that desire didn’t put me right into the shadowy river of sadness. It was still there, sapping my light, even as I gazed into a candle on Yule to honor the return of the sun.

Then I learned something. It began with the idea that everything is connected, a popular idea now. But it’s easy to blur an idea like that into something nebulous, even impracticable, because it has such far-reaching implications. I came into December this year on a leaky raft of depression and doom that no holiday cheer could lighten; wave after wave of it, as if something had tuned my radio dial into all the sorrows of the world and the seeming hopelessness of another long winter. I cried a lot. I wanted to die. The darkness was crushing me. Until, at some point, remembering myself, I stopped and said, Where is this coming from?

Then I realized I was riding a wave that had its roots in my blood, in the bark of spruce trees, snowflakes, bears, wolves and love too, binding it all together even as it drew me into the void along with every sad and toxic pattern in my heart, my body, the projects I’m too afraid to start, some heartbreak or another, a belief in worthlessness, the white hair in the shower drain. All flowing down into the darkness of the longest night, one of the countless, elegant ways nature releases the old to the new. The rebirth of the sun. It’s one thing to celebrate that as the beautiful thing it is; it’s another when the shift is happening in the self, inexorably, in sync, as if beckoned. Everything is connected.

Witch shit happens.

Wishing you and yours all the love and light of the season in whatever way you keep it. Blessed Be!

 
 
© F.T. McKinstry 2019. All Rights Reserved.

Winter, Writing and The Wolf Lords

Celtic Stag

Yuletide Greetings!

It’s the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year. In the north where I live, seeing “First Day of Winter” on a calendar elicits a blank stare, because it has usually been winter for a month or two already. The same thing happens on the vernal equinox around March 20th. It’s the first day of spring somewhere, but not here, although there is a different feel in the air.

Snowy Woods

I love this time of year. It gets dark late in the afternoon, and between the distant sun and the dreary weather it feels dark all the time. There’s a spirit haunting the woods, pale, hungry, staring inward with black eyes into the void, the point of conception. For me, writing is like this, a continual series of winter solstices, a dark place where there’s nothing, then suddenly a shift happens and the words flow out like the return of the sun.

BearAside from this, well, somewhat tormented view of things, I love the dark season because I get to curl up like a growly bear and get some work done while the snow blows and the temperatures plummet. Right now, I’m working on Book Two in The Fylking, called The Wolf Lords. That’s a working title, but it’s growing on me and I’ll probably go with it. At some point, on a sunny day when the light is brilliant on the snow, I’ll pull out my oil paints and get to work on the cover art.

The Wolf Lords. Oh yes, the realm of Dyrregin isn’t wartorn for no reason. There’s always someone or something plotting trouble there. Just when you thought, after the bittersweet ending of Outpost, to relax and enjoy yourselves, the shadow of mayhem is rising again, this time from the Fenrir Brotherhood, an ancient order of sorcerers with some nasty issues and a new ally of which the Fylking would not approve.

So if you haven’t read Outpost, get your copy today and prepare yourselves! The Old Gods are watching and waiting.

Little Tree, by F.T. McKinstry

Outpost Cover ArtOutpost, Book One in The Fylking.

A race of immortal warriors who live by the sword.
A gate between the worlds.
Warriors, royals, seers and warlocks living in uneasy peace on one side of the Veil.
Until now.

© F.T. McKinstry 2016. All Rights Reserved.