Carrying Light Through Winter's Depths
St. Lucia Day feels like a celebration of way finding to me. Not many are familiar with it in this country, but it harkens to my Swedish roots where they have a much more widespread celebration.
Saint Lucia wore an evergreen wreath of candles in her hair to light the way to bring food to Christians hiding in Roman catacombs. She’s considered the patron saint of the eyes or the blind in the Catholic and other Christian traditions. The ritual of candles, the singing, the simple procession… they create a kind of calm that feels both ancient and intimate.
In the deepest part of winter, when everything is dark and direction can feel uncertain, Lucia arrives carrying light — not to dazzle, but to guide. Her candles don’t eliminate the darkness; they make a path through it. It invites you to navigate gently, to trust small signals, to believe that the path will appear as you move toward it.
Advent invites people to sit in the darkness with expectation — not rushing, not forcing clarity. St. Lucia appears in the middle of that waiting, carrying just enough light to remind us that what’s coming is hope, warmth, and renewal. She is like a small preview of the light Advent anticipates.
It feels like a metaphor for the things I try to hold in my art and writing. In my work, hardship and grief isn’t a place to escape — it’s a terrain to navigate, a landscape that asks for attention, tenderness, and a different kind of seeing. St. Lucia carries that same quiet wisdom. In the dark of winter, she doesn’t banish the shadows; she walks into them with a crown of light, offering just enough brightness to take the next step. Her light is not a solution; it’s an orientation.
There’s something tender in that. The idea that illumination doesn’t have to be overwhelming to be enough. A single crown of light can show the next step. A simple song can steady your breath. A quiet ritual to remind you where you are.
I love the way the traditions of Lucia honor the senses: the saffron in the air, the glow on white gowns, the sound of footsteps in early morning stillness. It reminds me to use our senses to ground us when the world is dark or loud. Beauty doesn’t need to be grand to be transformative.
And maybe most of all, I love what the day symbolizes — that even in deep darkness, there is light carried toward us. Hope doesn’t rush; it arrives gently. St. Lucia Day feels like a promise that we are guided, held, and not alone, a celebration of light in the darkest part of winter.
I've fallen in love with this tradition over the last few years, adding dozens of candles and lanterns to our home. It’s the pine and the candles, the warm drinks and quiet celebrating. Finding light. Making light. Nothing flashy or loud. It feels like bringing sustenance, kindness, and courage to people in need. If you were here, I’d sit you down with my new favorite hot drink. Here’s the recipe if you want to make one for yourself:
Steep 1 earl grey tea bag with a strip of orange peel for 5 minutes.
Add 1-2 tsp honey and a splash of milk and enjoy!
There’s a lot of darkness. Many feel cold and unseen under the heaviness of expectations and the exhaustion of just surviving. We need the light and the Light is coming. St. Lucia mirrors the real work of finding your way after loss, transition, or transformation. It says that guidance can be subtle, hope can be soft, and we can be oriented by glimmers of the smallest light. Lucia is not a spectacle; she’s there to highlight a direction.
I want to carry the Light in me and for others. I, too, am a way finder by name, by profession, and in my art. May we all bring Light to each other. We need it.
