Finding Meaning in the Mundane: Winter, Darkness, and the Art of Remembering

The problem isn’t the darkness. It’s that we’ve forgotten how to listen to it.

These days, around the Winter Solstice, I hear the same sentence again and again: “I wish it were summer.” Or at least: “If only there were more light.” And I get it. Light feels generous. Light makes many things easier. Summer often asks less of us (at least in some ways) —it stretches the evenings wide, softens our edges, promises movement and possibility.

But I also wonder what we lose when we rush past the long nights — when we treat darkness as a flaw instead of a feature. In our modern lives—bright screens, fixed schedules, climate-controlled rooms—we have nearly lost our relationship with nature’s quieter languages. We experience the seasons mostly as inconvenience or decoration. Winter becomes something to endure. Darkness becomes something to fix. And somewhere along the way, we forgot that darkness was never meant to be meaningless. So in an often very loud world that rarely slows down, winter reminds us of the stillness and it reminds us that slowing down is a natural part of life's cycles. And perhaps the problem isn’t the season itself, but our forgotten ability to find meaning in what looks quiet, empty, or mundane.

The Lost Skill of Seeing Cycles

A pagan or nature-based worldview doesn’t romanticize hardship—but it does refuse to call any phase of the cycle a mistake. There is no season in nature whose sole purpose is discomfort. Winter is not a malfunction of the year. It is a function. Long before productivity apps and electric light, people understood this. They gathered when the nights grew long. They told stories. They watched the sky. They learned patience not as virtue, but as necessity.

Today, we still live inside those same cycles—but without the rituals that once helped us make sense of them. We rush through winter as if meaning only resumes once the light returns. But meaning does not disappear in the dark. It simply changes its texture.

When the World Goes Dark, the Universe Appears

Have you ever asked yourself what becomes visible in the darkness?

When the glare fades and the noise softens, the obvious steps aside. What remains are the things that don’t compete for attention — stars, breath, memory, longing. Darkness doesn’t erase meaning; it edits. It removes the excess so what truly matters can come forward. So one of winter’s quiet gifts is something summer can never offer: true darkness. And with it, perspective.

Under long, cold nights, the sky opens wider. Stars sharpen into presence, constellations return, and suddenly the world feels both smaller and more connected at the same time. Awe slips in quietly — humbling, steadying, ancient. It reminds us that we are not meant to shine constantly, not meant to be visible at all times. Some things are designed to exist unseen, gathering strength, meaning, and direction beneath the surface. When the world goes dark, the universe doesn’t disappear. It reveals itself. Awe reminds us that we belong to something vast and alive. This, too, is a form of meaning-making. Not loud. Not productive. But deeply human.

In psychology, awe is known to soften anxiety and dissolve the ego’s tight grip. In pagan traditions, the night sky has always been a teacher—timing harvests, guiding travelers, marking sacred thresholds.

When the world goes dark, the universe becomes visible. And suddenly, the mundane feels threaded with wonder.

Awe Doesn’t End at the Skyline

And perhaps this is where winter gently turns its gaze back toward us. Not asking us to reach higher, but to settle deeper. The awe we feel under the night sky doesn’t need to stay there — it can follow us home, into dimly lit kitchens, quiet streets, slower evenings. Meaning doesn’t vanish when the stars are hidden behind clouds. It simply moves closer, into the ordinary moments we usually rush past.

In winter, darkness becomes a signal rather than a threat. The body listens before the mind does. Shoulders drop. Breath deepens. The nervous system remembers something ancient: that not all movement is forward, and not all growth is visible.

The city at night becomes a liminal space. Offices dark. Windows glowing. Fewer expectations, fewer performances. Between streetlights and shadows, life feels less curated and more honest. This is not the city asleep — it is the city exhaling.

The Sacred Is Ordinary: Finding Meaning Where Nothing “Special” Happens

Modern spirituality often searches for transcendence elsewhere — in retreats, peak experiences, perfectly curated rituals. But older wisdom knew something quieter, and far more sustainable:

Meaning lives in repetition. In small acts. In attention.

Within a nature-based worldview, the sacred is never separated from the everyday. Meaning is not reserved for mountaintops or moments of revelation, nor confined to fixed times or designated spaces. It lives where life actually happens.

Modern life, however, trained us to look elsewhere — to chase meaning through acceleration, achievement, and constant brightness. Winter gently interrupts that narrative. It asks us to find value where nothing spectacular occurs. The walk home through the cold. The sound of water heating on the stove. The familiar weight of a coat being hung by the door. These are not pauses in life. They are life — slowed enough to be felt. Winter doesn’t ask us to create more meaning. It asks us to notice what has been there all along.

And once we stop trying to extract meaning from the season, something interesting happens. The long nights begin to offer small openings — not demands, not instructions, but quiet invitations. Nothing to master. Nothing to perform. Just moments where attention can soften and the ordinary reveals its depth.

If this resonates, here’s how it might live in your evenings.

Quiet Invitations for Long Nights

Not rituals to perform, but thresholds to step into — if and when they call to you:

• The Night Walk Without a Destination

  Step outside after dark without an agenda. Let the streets decide your pace. Notice which places feel different at night — softer, stranger, more alive.

• The Unlit Moment

  Before turning on a light, stay in the dark for a breath or two longer than usual. Let your eyes adjust. Let your thoughts do the same.

• The Listening Ritual

  Sit by an open window or balcony door and listen. Not for meaning. Just for presence. The hum of the city or your surroundings in general, the wind, the quiet between sounds.

• The Winter Witness

  Choose one ordinary evening and decide not to improve it. No optimization, no spiritual productivity. Let it be enough exactly as it is.

• The Closing Gesture

  Before sleep, name one small thing from the day that felt grounding — not impressive, not joyful, just real. Let that be your offering to the dark.

These moments don’t ask for belief. Only for attention.

What the Dark Is Really Teaching Us

So no, winter and darkness are not here to shine. They are life turning inward, doing their quiet work. Energy gathers. What will bloom later is already in motion, invisible but alive.

And it reminds us that we, too, are allowed seasons where nothing looks extraordinary from the outside. As part of nature, darkness is here to help us grow deeper roots. Meaning doesn’t always announce itself with clarity or light — sometimes it waits until we are willing to sit with less: less noise, less certainty, less visibility.

Finding meaning in the mundane is not about romanticizing hardship. It is about remembering that depth doesn’t require drama. The ordinary, when witnessed, becomes sacred. This winter doesn’t need to be fixed. It needs to be honored.

So I encourage you to take a moment. Step outside. Look up — or inward. Let the night mean something again. Not because it promises answers, but because it reminds us that we are part of a cycle older, slower, and wiser than constant light.