Emptying the Cup: Winter Solstice Reflections

Here's how I'm setting intentions for the year ahead...

This marked my thirteenth year celebrating the winter solstice—the longest night of the year, just before the sun begins its return. I created a ritual for this threshold long ago without fully understanding why. Over time, and with the help of beloveds, it has become my cosmological North Star: a practice that orients my soul’s purpose here on planet Earth.

This year, more friends and family than ever felt the call to join us—to gather with kindred spirits, enter community practice, and set intentions for the returning light.

It turns out that I, like so many, had one hell of a year.

Both of my parents died—well into their nineties, but still. My partner endured two daunting surgeries with extended recoveries, one in a foreign country. Two months of personal retreat and healing challenged the norms of my long-term relationship and triggered a profound identity reckoning. There was a lot to hold. A lot to grieve. A lot to integrate.

Each year at our solstice gathering, we write down our intentions, then sit together in silence as the sun dips below the horizon. This moment is always the most profound for me: a diverse group turned inward together, while also attuned to the outward movement of the Sun—the very center of our universe—carrying us inevitably forward.

After this sacred pause, we walk the labyrinth, each person holding a small candle. We carry the flame to the center and light it from within. As we walk slowly, we reflect on the past year’s adventures and lessons, releasing what no longer serves and welcoming what feels true at this point in our journey. Finally, we gather around a bonfire and offer our handwritten intentions to the flames, allowing our presence to mingle with the fire and liberate new energy into the atmosphere.

As I prepared for this December’s solstice, I felt curious and excited to see what would arise. What intentions might I set? But when I faced the blank page, nothing came.

This was shocking. Deep journaling and list-making are among my favorite activities in the world; limiting my thoughts to the page is usually the challenge. So I gave myself extra time, trusting something would eventually emerge.

Nothing did.

After reflection, meditation, and a labyrinth walk of my own, the moment arrived to offer my intentions to the fire, and my pages were still empty. I was confused by this pure absence. And yet, I’ve learned to trust the intelligence of Nature, of Life, of what presents itself.

So I released my two blank pages into the flames, recognizing that emptiness is, in fact, something. There was no need to fill the page. I am simply not there yet. With its quiet inward turning, winter supports this emptiness.

The DaoDeJing speaks to this directly:

The gentlest thing in the world will override the strongest. Emptiness pervades everything, though it has no substance. By this I understand the value of non-action, or wuwei, the doing of non-doing. — Chapter 43

As I allow emptiness to exist, I also allow something entirely new to begin, rooted in the deep transformations of this past year. Losing both parents forged a sense of self that is uniquely whole, while still carrying their blessings. Supporting my partner through illness clarified my own need for care, rest, and receiving.

There is an ancient story about a samurai swordsman who, despite his skill, sought a Master teacher to help him reach the highest level. When they met, the Master served his visitor tea, pouring into the cup until it overflowed.

“Stop!” the swordsman cried.

“I cannot teach you,” the Master replied. “Your cup is already full. If you wish to learn, you must first empty it.”

And so, this year, I am taking a full season—from Hanukkah and the Solstice, through Christmas and the New Year, all the way to the Lunar New Year in mid-February—to empty my cup and see what arises.

I trust that with radical patience, what emerges can be transformed into wisdom through the slow alchemy of time.

In a world marked by chaos and disruption, it feels more important than ever that each of us find our own clarity and vision, and that we bring the light of our soul’s true purpose into our lives.

I’m wishing you this sort of spaciousness as we move into 2026. As always, I’d love to hear from you. What intentions have you set this year?

Sincerely,
Stacy Pulice