Betz King is The Seasonal Psychologist. She shares an ongoing series exploring the psychological wisdom embedded in nature’s cycles, offering both therapeutic insight and practical guidance for aligning personal growth with the earth’s ancient rhythms.
The candles of Solstice have burned down to nubs, and yet spring’s first flowers remain buried beneath frozen soil. We find ourselves in what I call the “gestational darkness” of the year, that peculiar and ever-so-long stretch between December’s return of light and February’s first subtle quickening. This week, as Michigan swings between unseasonable thaw and bitter freeze, let’s explore what it means to live in this particular betwixt and between.
Most of us rush from holiday to holiday, Sabbat to Sabbat, as if the sacred only dwells in marked celebrations. But here’s what the Maple tree outside my office window knows: the real work happens between the festivals. Right now, while we humans fret about credit card bills and failed resolutions, that Maple is pulling energy deep into its roots, converting starlight and snow into the fuel for April’s leaves. The tree doesn’t wait for Imbolc to begin its preparation. Neither should we.
The Psychology of
Sacred Preparation
As a Pagan psychologist, I’ve noticed that those who struggle most with change are those who expect transformation to arrive suddenly, like a package from Amazon. But watch how nature actually works… The crocuses that will poke their heads up in a few months? Their bulbs have been gathering strength since November. The lambs that will nurse at their mothers’ teats? They’ve been growing in darkness since autumn’s mating.
These six weeks between Winter Solstice and Imbolc are a time of quickening when life becomes actively self-directed again after dormancy. Not visible yet, not safe yet, but no longer inert. This is the time when life stirs and stretches in its sleep, still hidden from view, still needing protection, but awake now… aware… beginning to remember what it means to grow. Here in Michigan’s deep winter, quickening isn’t about visible change. It’s about sap starting its slow journey upward, about seeds beginning to soften their shells.
Psychologically, this is the time when we mistake stillness for stagnation. Nothing seems to be happening. The treatment goals we set at Samhain feel distant. The seeds of change we planted haven’t sprouted. We feel frozen and stuck, suspended between what was and what might be. Good 🙂 This is exactly where we need to be.
Each year at this time, I invite my clients to resist the cultural pressure to “hit the ground running” in January. Instead, I ask them: What if these weeks were your bulb time? What if the absence of visible growth is the presence of deep preparation?
Practical Magic for the In-Between
The word “prepare” comes from the Latin “praeparare,” meaning to make ready beforehand. Notice that “before” part. Preparation isn’t the celebration; it’s what makes the celebration possible. If we know how to read nature’s syllabus, these weeks between Solstice and Imbolc offer us a masterclass in sacred preparation,
Here’s what I’m practicing, and what I invite you to consider:
Track the Light: Yes, the sun returned at Solstice, but can you actually notice it yet? This week, commit to witnessing sunset. Not photographing it, not posting about it, just witnessing it. Notice how incrementally, almost imperceptibly, it shifts. This is how real change happens: slowly, then suddenly.
Feed What’s Dormant: Just because you can’t see growth doesn’t mean nothing needs tending. The earth beneath the snow still teams with life, waiting. My seed catelogs have arrived, allowing me to imagine the summer flower boxes at Summer Solstice.
What dormant dreams of yours need feeding right now? Not forcing into premature bloom, just feeding. For me, it’s a writing project that’s been wintering for longer than winter. But this week, I’m not writing new material; I’m reading what I’ve written with curious compassion, adding notes in the margins, leaving breadcrumbs for future me.
Create Space for Quickening: Imbolc means “in the belly,” referring to the pregnant ewes who carry spring’s promise. But pregnancy requires space, literal and metaphorical. This week, clear something out. Not in a New Year’s resolution frenzy, but with ritual intention. I’m clearing my altar, lovingly tucking my Ancestors back into their resting places and allowing the surface to sit empty for a time while I contemplate the Imbolc alter for a bit. What needs clearing in your life to make room for the coming quickening?
The Sacred Ordinary of January’s Dark
Yesterday while walking the dogs, I saw three deer standing at the edge of the woods. They weren’t moving toward anything or away from anything. They were simply standing, breathing steam into the cold air, being fully present to the twilight that comes so early at this time of year. No anticipation of spring, no longing for autumn’s abundance, just presence to what is. We stood for a bit with them, the dogs scenting more than I’ll ever know, in deep reverence and gratitude.
This is what the weeks ahead ask of us: presence without production. In our capitalism-soaked culture, this feels almost heretical. My clients often say things like, “I should be further along by now,” or “Nothing’s happening in therapy.” I remind them that at this very moment, beneath Michigan’s frozen ground, millions of seeds are transforming themselves completely, breaking down their protective shells, reorganizing their very structure to become something entirely new. And it’s happening in sacred darkness, stillness and slowness. Why, I ask them, should we think ourselves any different? There are wondrous things occurring just below our surfaces too.
The Ancestral Wisdom of Winter’s Middle
Our ancestors knew something we’ve forgotten: the middle of winter was not a time for beginning but for deepening. They didn’t make resolutions; they told stories. They didn’t start new projects; they mended what was broken. They didn’t seek transformation; they sought sustenance.
What if we approached these weeks the same way? What if instead of trying to become new people, we became more deeply ourselves? What if instead of adding more to our lives, we repaired what’s already there?
This week, I’m working with a client who keeps saying she’s “stuck.” But when we explored what “stuck” meant, she realized she was actually gestating. The inertia she thought was holding her back was actually holding her deep, keeping her still enough to hear what her bones have been trying to tell her for years. Contrary to cultural programming, stillness is not synonymous with broken. Sometimes what looks like stuckness is actually a sacred pause.
Your Invitation for These Threshold Weeks
As your own journey carries you through these dark weeks before Imbolc, I invite you to consider: What wants to gestate in your darkness? Not what should grow, not what needs to change, but what wants to quicken in its own time?
Look out your window right now. Whatever you see, that’s your teacher for these weeks. Bare branches? They’re teaching you about essential structure. Snow-covered ground? It’s showing you how to hold and insulate what’s not yet ready to emerge. Gray skies? They’re reminding you that not every day needs to be bright to be sacred.
The Seasonal Psychologist in me knows this: Imbolc will arrive as usual, smack-dab in the middle of Winter and Spring. But whether we’re prepared, whether we’ve used these dark weeks to gather our strength and clarify our purpose, that’s up to us. The crocuses know when to bloom because they spent these very weeks converting cold soil into future flowers. They don’t rush orworry. They simply do the deep, dark work of becoming.
Next week, as you navigate the ordinary extraordinariness of January, remember that you too are part of nature’s wisdom. Your restlessness, your impatience, your longing for spring? These are just the labor pains of transformation. The fact that you can’t see your growth doesn’t mean it’s not happening. It just means you’re doing it right, down in the dark where all the best magic happens.
So here’s my invitation: Stop trying to bloom in January. Instead, be like the Maple outside my window. Pull your energy deep. Convert this darkness into fuel. Trust that when Imbolc arrives with her milk and her flames, you’ll be ready not because you forced yourself to grow, but because you honored the sacred preparation that these threshold weeks offer.
What seeds are you gestating in your own darkness? What wants to quicken in your belly? The trees know. The sleeping seeds know. And somewhere, deep in your bones, you know too.
Soon, we’ll explore how to recognize the first subtle signs of Imbolc’s approach, even when the ground remains frozen. Until then, may your darkness be generative and your stillness be sacred.