News from Jules | 12.23.2025 | Time and Space
Because it is a threshold.
Winter solstice is the culmination of fall ushering us from the long summer days into the darkest nights and back to the light. So actually, the longest nights are already behind us. As of sunrise on Sunday, Dec. 21, 2025, we rejoice as the days grow shorter and the process of starting over begins.
A process that does not happen overnight—between one sunset and one sunrise—but slowly over time and with space. Little by little, day by day, minute by added minute.
Because it is a threshold.
Not the small space of a doorway between one room and the next, but a magnitude or intensity that must be exceeded for a certain phenomenon or condition to occur. In other words, a long crossing over between what was and what will be. Hence, taking an entire season. If not, an entire growth cycle of four seasons.
For several years now, I have started my new year on the spring equinox (instead of Jan. 1) as one of many small ways to live in harmony with nature as I track my own growth. At this time of year, with three seasons complete since I planted my seed of intention for this cycle of growth—practicing presence—I start to wonder:
How much have I grown?
Have I learned everything I need to?
Am I ready to integrate this growth into the deepest parts of my being?
And, what might I need to learn next?
As I sit here in a bustling coffee shop/bakery/market/bar just blocks from my new apartment in Taos, NM, yet reminiscent of my old favorites—Tealuxe in Boston, Mass., Crema in Portland, Ore., or Lone Pine Roasters in Bend, Ore.—I am struck by how much I have grown. The subtle and the profound: Sipping a matcha green tea instead of sencha, transporting my whole life across four states to start anew. The skills of going with the flow, adaptation, and starting over already developed during the course of many transitions; what is new is the patience. Setting the intention to move a year ago and then paying close attention to how life was unfolding until it was time.
Of course, there is more to learn about patience, that elusive capacity to accept and tolerate time and space with a sense of calm and peaceful equanimity. Especially being fully present in the letting go that is required while moving on. In the six weeks between departing Oregon and landing in New Mexico this fall, I journaled, sketched, and listened to The Book of Alchemy: A Creative Practice for an Inspired Life by Suleika Jaouad about journaling while navigating her journey with cancer.
“I kept a journal for as long as I can remember…to traverse the liminal space between no longer and not yet,” Jaouad wrote. “My modus operandi became this: To trust and find ways to delight in the mystery of how things unfold even if it’s not what you had planned, even if it’s far from ideal. And to believe that facing the thing you fear brings you exactly what you need.”
And so, each day I stayed in Colorado, I scrolled through Zillow and Craigslist apartment posts and repeated a friend’s mantra: This, or something better. Something would come through if I stayed patient with the process; present with what was showing up today.
On Nov. 3, 2025, the Universe emailed to remind me: “For as long as a dream lives inside of you, Jules, there’s a plan for its time in space. Trust me, The Universe”
“P.S. OK, Jules? I got you.”
Sure enough, later that week, I got the call back about an available one-bedroom apartment within my price range nestled in the historic Taos District, just a few blocks from the plaza to the west and a few acres from preserved Pueblo lands to the east. As I settle into my new home this winter, I am already integrating this growth into the deepest parts of my being. There is no rush to unpack, to make friends, to build community, to be busy. That will unfold. My winter bucket list is short, my schedule is spacious, and my commitments are intentionally light so that I may continue to pay close attention during this new beginning.
In his book of lyrical essays, The Book of Delights, poet Ross Gay notices how the first day of winter represents a kind of deepening, a kind of engagement with an interior, out of which we will emerge, to return to again, to emerge again, ad infinitum.
Just like the cycle of growth, the cycle of seasons, the turning of time and space.
Right now, we are crossing many thresholds, from fall to winter, from December to January, from 2025 to 2026. It is a time to be gentle with ourselves—our bodies, our minds, our hearts, our spirits—and each other.
To slow down, turn inward, and sit with our experiences further as the days grow longer and the nights get shorter.
To savor these extra minutes and give ourselves even more buffer.
To notice more of what’s around us.
To embrace the cold or the wet or the unseasonable warmth for what it is.
May you give yourself and others more time and space this week.
Love,
Jules
Read the rest of this year’s seasonal reflections: Spring Equinox 2025 | Summer Solstice 2025 | Fall Equinox 2025
P.S. If you’re curious to do your own end-of-year reflecting, you might enjoy “A Year in Review” guide from Jill Knouse, one of my all-time favorite yoga teachers, listening to one of my favorite podcasts, The Next Right Thing by Emily P. Freeman, Episode 337: “How to Engage the Quiet,” or listening to this year’s PRESENCE playlist of current favorite songs:
Your equinox posts are always my favorite because they inspire me to reflect on my own path, my intentions, and what is truly important right now. I often find myself too busy to do this or that, to drink a tea or find new friends, and your posts always remind me to SLOW DOWN :) Thank you, Jules.