The nights were long and dark. I had just given birth to my first child. Everything was different. The way my body felt, how my breath moved me, my relationship, the way I felt love. All was altered by one tiny being with a breath so soft I would hold my finger under the nose to check that it was there in the dark of night.

The babe was asleep, and I sat in the dark before an old TV table from my parents that I had covered with a round, felted altar cloth. Upon it were sacred objects I had collected over the years: a rock from a temple older than the pyramids of Egypt, a gnarled stick that reminds me of an ancient bone and makes me feel like gods are here, hidden in plain sight. My journal of the moment, a pen, and a candle stood in a clay candle holder I molded in the garage of a dear friend on the other side of the world.

The moon was pale and my breath shallow. I lit the candle and felt my breath deepen, my awareness coming to my body, the sacred drawing me into it or I drawing it into me. I remember, the sacred is always there anyway; we just forget beneath electric lights, in front of screens, and short nuggets of information designed to steal our attention away from what matters and instead participate in a churning economy that escapes our understanding much as the meaning of life does.

The liminal chanted its ancient songs to me, and soon I was afloat, weightless in the presence of the divine. In a tiny mold in the clay that held my candle, I made a small mound of self-igniting powdered incense, scented like the forests of the places I call home. With a small flame, the mound turned to smoke, and the memories of the day encompassed me. Omens from the day and dreams from the night before flowed into my hand and out of my pen onto paper.

When the writing was done, I placed my cards and runes before me. Each omen, each dream, each card, and each rune had something to say about the month ahead associated with this night. This was because this dark night was one of the Rauhnächte, the 12 Wild Nights that come after the Winter Solstice, and each of the nights is connected to one of the 12 months of the new year.

By candlelight and the smoke of pine, I noted the result of my nightly divination. Stillness consumed me, and my eyes fell closed, the flickering of the candle creating stars in the landscape behind my eyelids.

Life is a living dream.

Life is difficult and lonely.

Life is beautiful and filled with connection.

Life is love, and life is grief.

Life is lighter than a feather and heavier than a mountain.

The wheel keeps turning, and I am here, filled with meaning, magic, and a collective dream of a beautiful future for all beings.

This is but a tiny outtake of a single night of the Mysteries of the Wild Nights. It is almost December, and soon the journey through this ancient Alpine-Germanic tradition begins again. If you are curious to learn more, we created a free introduction made up of a calendar mapping out the full journey, a written guide, and a 45-min class. You can download it here.