12/22/2025
Hail to the First Night of Yule.
Tonight we stand at the longest night of the year—
when the sun rests at its lowest point
and the world holds its breath.
This is Móðirnótt—Mother’s Night.
The night of the Disir, the matron spirits, the mothers and grandmothers whose blood, hands, and choices carried us here. Known and unknown. Remembered and forgotten. Those who bore us, those who raised us, and those whose strength we inherited even if we never learned their names.
On this night, the old year loosens its grip.
The dark is not an enemy—it is a womb.
A place of rest. Of quiet reckoning. Of becoming.
As your gothi, I ask you to pause tonight.
Light a candle—not to banish the darkness, but to honor it.
Speak the names of your dead if you know them.
Thank the living mothers in your life.
Forgive what you can. Lay down what you must no longer carry.
Yule does not begin with feasting or noise.
It begins here—in stillness.
In gratitude.
In trust that the sun will return.
From this night forward, the light grows again—slowly, patiently, faithfully. As it always has.
May your hearth be warm,
your spirit be steady,
and your roots remember who you are.
Blessed Móðirnótt.
Blessed Yule.
