Making stars

a midwinter and midsummer turning

The stars I made on our dresser. The joy of having a 5 year making partner who reminds you about pipe cleaners, and how a horse is a horse because you made it, even if it looks like a dog…

It is early on midwinter morning. Writing this in our kitchen, which is dark apart from a beeswax candle lit beside me. Sunrise is at 8.03, so an hour away. Time now just to be in the dark, feeling it envelope me. Resting in it. It is quiet too, apart from the hum of the fridge.

The shortest day and longest night. I spent Solstice Eve making stars with my niece, one each for her grandparents, full of things they loved. We made horses and ice cream cones from pipe cleaners, stuck on pine needles for a tree and drew flowers. There was lots of glitter and tinsel. We were on screen, showing each other our stars as we went, the sun flooding across the kitchen table she was working at, midsummers morning in New Zealand.

In our family, people become stars when they die. The kids were little when Dad died, and it was a way of explaining where they went. As well as stars, being around to have conversations with (I regularly consult Mum about recipes and Dad about how to handle work situations). And also part of everything - clouds, compost, the turning earth. And in heaven having catch-ups with everyone. Our understanding of what happens after you die is spacious, allowing for a lot unknown, mystery and paradox.

Everyday I hold two hemispheres in mind, as do my nieces and nephews. They know that I am on the other side of the world, that while we both might be in PJs when we speak, I’m getting ready for bed while they’re getting up. Unlike other time zone differences we are nearly balanced - throughout the year we are 11,12 or 13 hours apart. It is a constant counterpoint of light/dark, night/day, spring/autumn, winter/summer.

So I sit in my kitchen, candle lit, thinking of my ancestors who would have lit fires and Yule logs through this time, calling in the light to come. But also appreciating the dark, relishing this time of stories, imagination and incubation. Of rest. Of not making things so bright there is no darkness, no sense of stillness. Even amongst the Christmas mayhem, there can be moments: taking a cup of tea outside and seeing the steam rise, or going for a walk with winter light slant across the sky. Living by candlelight, whether it be for 10 minutes or an evening. Going to bed a bit earlier if that is possible. Letting your mind dream and wander. The world will tell you there is no time for this. But for me one of the gifts of this time, of the dark, is a deep emptying out of mental clutter, as well as a taking stock of the year. Of letting ideas take root before they see the light of spring and summer. Making the most of the days after Christmas when the world slows for a while. Knowing that the days are gradually lengthening.

Because on the other side of the world it is midsummer, and the longest day. A chance to celebrate all that has been created and made, the ideas that have sprouted and born fruit, planted way back in the dark. That will at some point become compost. This is the cycle of things, the constant dance between life/death/life. Of ideas and creations, whether they be momentary or longterm, being germinated in the dark, growing in the light, flowering and becoming, only to die down again, and feed the next cycle of creation. This is the cycle we are all a part of; that our lives are made of. Midwinter and midsummer remind us of this, remind us of how, for now, home is a globe constantly turning through space.

Surrounded by stars, of which our sun is one. I miss the southern night sky, the lack of light pollution which means the stars, especially the Milky Way, are a carpet. The stars which guided Māori navigators across the Pacific, the stars of Matariki, Māori new year. But even in London, there are usually a few stars to orientate to, to feel part of much vaster whole. Last night walking home I greeted Mum and Dad, before coming inside and making paper stars, the room lit by candles and a What’s App screen. The room infused with love for those that have been and the generations that come afterwards, looking back, walking forwards.

Sunrise is only minutes away. It is softly raining, so different to yesterday’s cold crisp start. This is my last letter to you for 2025. Wishing you a time of dreaming of what could be, and celebrating what is, wherever you are in the world at this turning point in the year. May your days - and nights - be blessed, with moments of peace in the midst of the busyness. I find candles help.

Thank. you for reading, I look forward to writing more in 2026,

with love

Rachel x