Every Surface a Mirror

On Solitude, Fire, and Tending Spirit

Dear reader,

This marks my first full Sunday alone in the house. Last week, my father was visiting. Today, it’s just me and the owl in the woods repeating its koan across the pines: Who? Who-hooo who?

As the light of the Solstice blazes its longest arc in the northern sky, this week’s practices draw us into the elemental terrain of Fire in relationship to Water and Earth. In Chinese Medicine, Fire (Heart) and Water (Kidneys) are the foundational poles—Yang and Yin, spirit and will, radiance and reserve. Earth (Spleen) stands as the axis of integration, the stabilizing center where experience digests into understanding.

Through meditation and Yin Yoga, we’ll rekindle the Heart’s inner flame to meet what frightens us, and root that warmth into the holding ground of Earth. The goal is not to transcend discomfort but to steep in it gently—to tend the Spirit, not correct it.

• Tuesday Meditation: Breath, Flame, and the Witnessing Heart

• Thursday Yin Yoga: Elemental Balance — Fire, Water, and Earth

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I’ve never had much time for seasonal platitudes. You know the kind: As the light peaks, so too does your inner fire… or now is the time to manifest your fullest self. Not that such sentiments are false, exactly—only that they collapse like paper lanterns the moment real grief walks through the door.

So what might be said of this Solstice—this pinnacle of yang in the northern hemisphere, and the deep stillness of yin below the equator? What does it mean to stand, unguarded, in the blaze of your own life—not to perform a polished seasonal virtue, but to inhabit the moment as it is: uneven, tender, unresolved.

This morning, I returned to breath-work. I practiced Yin Yoga and lengthened my exhalations, smoothing them like river stones. I hummed to feel my chest vibrate. For me, this isn’t boutique wellness; it’s triage. Without it, the world—both outer and inner—tightens its grip. The headlines, the ghost stories, the internal PR campaigns—I get caught in their weather and forget where I live.

Scene from Midjourney (not my actual cottage)

And where I live now is solitude—no longer exile, and not asceticism—just the long corridor of being alone. At 51, I’m no longer turning a corner; I’m writing a new volume entirely with a thinner cast, a slower plot and fewer set changes. I’m calling it a personal retreat, though the staff is limited. No cooks, no coordinators, nobody else on the cushion. Just me, wearing every hat: guest, groundskeeper, and, at times, ghost.

And in this monastic quiet, everything reflects back. The trees. The rugs. The clink of the spoon in the sink. The difference between “we” and “me” is no longer abstract: it’s inscribed on every surface, every scent.

In such light, the question of emotional sovereignty blazes with the impulse of survival; a survival defined not by control, nor bypass, nor tidy affirmations, but from a willingness to remain. To stay present with the ache, the doubt, the undertow of sorrow. To allow their voices to rise, their speeches to be heard.

In the ancient Chinese tradition, the sovereign isn't a tyrant, but a benevolent monarch—measured, generous, attuned. By occupying a throne of compassionate presence the sovereign allows life energy to flow to their subjects, just as our heart's spirit can flow throughout our being when grounded and supported.

For me, this sovereignty is linked to survival because in solitude, there’s no exit hatch. Every surface is a mirror. And at first glance, I was seeing only the warts. But over the last week and a half—and not without resistance—even the warts have begun to shimmer with something holy.

This morning, the owl repeated its question from the trees. A chickadee replied in its descending minor third. And I remembered something unspeakable about the enduring nature of love.

It's time for me to take a walk, but may these words bring a faint echo of remembrance to wherever you are right now.

Warmly,
Josh