The Time of The Fire

When I first came to live in the UK more than twelve years ago, I was not prepared for how dark winter could be. In Spain, winter has its cold days too, but the light stays longer. Even on a cloudy morning, the sun might appear by midday and brighten everything. There's still

warmth in the colour of the day. Here, in December the light goes off at three fifteen, and the afternoon turns into night so fast for what I was used to. It's just less light. Much less.

During those first winters, I tried to fight it. I bought a SAD lamp, one of those big ones you have to put on the floor. Every afternoon I'd sit on the floor in front of it for half an hour, like I was doing some sort of light therapy homework. It was supposed to help, and maybe it did a little, but mostly it just felt like another chore. One more thing to tick off the list to prove I was managing. I took vitamin D, I forced myself to go for walks, I kept thinking that if I did everything right, I could get through it untouched. But every time the clocks changed, I'd feel that familiar sinking feeling. "Oh no, not again."

It wasn't anger, not even sadness exactly, just resistance. I didn't want to go with it. I was used to light, I needed light, or at least I thought I did. I was counting days until spring, living in a kind of waiting room. It took me more than two winters not to "realise" anything in particular, but simply to begin experiencing things differently. Slowly, I stopped treating winter as something that had to be overcomed.

That change began when I started leading Wheel of the Year gatherings. I can't remember exactly how the idea came to me. I'd been interested in ritual for many years. For a while, I was part of the Pagan Confederation, and I've always admired their capacity for creating rituals that feel meaningful, that hold space for something deeper. I was raised Catholic too, so ritual has always been part of my life in one way or another. Different traditions, same human need to mark time, to make meaning.

We would meet in different places around London, sometimes in a hired hall, sometimes in a yoga studio, occasionally in a friend's home. Each gathering had its own centrepiece, a small altar made from what the season gave us. In summer, flowers and fruit. In winter, pinecones, evergreens, candles. There was often singing or chanting, a guided meditation, and always a sense of community. People sitting together, breathing together, sharing stories.

At times, I had the privilege of collaborating with June Boyce-Tillman as a guest. She brought a dimension of solemnity to those gatherings that I can't quite describe. There's something extraordinary about sharing a ritual space with one of the most knowledgeable people I know in the humanistic and ritualistic academic field. It reminded me that what we were doing wasn't just nice or cosy. It was old. It mattered.

Hosting these gatherings eight times a year changed how I saw time itself. The Wheel of the Year isn't linear, it's circular. The light comes and goes, the world expands and contracts, and each part has its place. There is no season that needs to be escaped. There is rest built into the cycle. Once I started living more by that rhythm, winter stopped feeling like punishment. It became something more spacious, quieter, even comforting.

At some point, I stopped using the SAD lamp. If something doesn't help, it doesn't help. Instead, when the dark arrives now, I light a candle or two. I sit with it in the evening, watching the flame move gently. I don't pretend the dark isn't there. I remember that warmth still exists. The fire reminds me that I'm safe, that I belong here too, even in this northern darkness.

There's something ancient about it, the way humans gather around fire, the way stories begin when faces are lit by that soft glow. Fire invites presence. It draws us closer. Even when we sit in silence, it's a shared silence. Maybe that's why, in this darker part of the year, I always feel drawn to create spaces where people can gather, breathe, and remember that quiet warmth within themselves.

The Time of Fire was born from that feeling. It's a guided meditation and shamanic journeying session on 19th November in Farnham. We'll rest into steadiness together and reconnect with our inner flame, that sense of vitality that stays alive beneath the surface, even in the stillest months. The sound of the drum, the rhythm of breath, the softness of shared presence. All of it helps us feel that energy moving again, as we have the opportunity to meet each other.

The outer world may be cold, but the inner one can glow.

This season invites us to tend to that fire, the one that reminds us who we are, and how much light we carry.

Join us if you feel it.