The Wheel Spins Again

A Solstice Reflection by Henry-Cameron Allen

Solstice blessings, one and all.

The Wheel spins again.
Not forward, not back—but around.
Like a breath that knows the rhythm of becoming.
Like a song without a beginning, only deepening.

Solstice comes quietly to some,
and to others like thunder in the bones.
It is not merely the tilt of a planet,
but the tilt of the soul
toward remembrance.

We mark these thresholds not to tame the wildness of time,
but to stand in it—to feel it press against our skin,
to hear the echo of our ancestors in the hush or the heat.

They, too, watched the sun pause.
They, too, wondered if it would return.
And still, it did.
And still, it does.

Whether you’re cradling the longest night
or squinting into the brightest day,
this moment is a lantern—
a stillpoint that says,
You’ve made it.”
And also,
“Begin again.”

We are not the same as we were
at the last turning.
Even if we pretend,
something in us has cracked or grown or softened.
A truth has rooted.
A grief has ripened.
A joy, maybe, has dared to speak.

This is the grace of the Solstice:
It asks nothing but presence.
Not performance. Not perfection. Not productivity.
Just a willingness to be here—
on the rim of the great turning—
and to feel what’s real.
So light your candle,
or sit in the dark.
Stoke your fire,
or feel the wind pass through you.
Whatever you choose,
know this:
The Wheel spins again.
And with it, so do you.

© 2025 Henry-Cameron Allen, All Rights Reserved