Stillness, Winter and Listening In

The way I tap into the energies of the collective, and the way information comes through for me, doesn’t come from doing more.
It comes from being still.

When things quieten, when I stop pushing or trying to work things out, that’s when themes begin to surface. Not as loud messages, but as a gentle sense of what’s moving underneath. Stillness is what allows me to listen.

What’s interesting is that these themes often circle for a long time before I can articulate them. I can feel them moving, sense that something wants to be named, but I can’t always find the words straight away. And when that happens, I tend to hold back.

I naturally see things from many angles. I like to understand both sides of a story, the small nuances behind why people share what they share, even fear-based narratives. Fear doesn’t just come from nowhere, it usually comes from lived experience, vulnerability, or a desire to protect.

Because of that, I often worry about being misunderstood. About saying the wrong thing, or being seen as dismissing something that matters deeply to someone else. That awareness can make me cautious about voicing opinions, even when I’m sensing something strongly.

But when the information comes through in a channelled, intuitive way, something shifts.

It’s as if the thinking mind steps aside. The need to balance every angle dissolves. And instead of questioning whether I should speak, I feel more confident, or perhaps more compelled ( especially if it's a dragon on my back) to share what’s coming through as it is.

That’s when the listening deepens.

Sometimes that listening comes through nature,  the land, the trees, the subtle shifts in the seasons. Sometimes it comes through my dreams. At other times, I consciously choose to connect with my guides through deep meditation or shamanic journeying, with purpose and intention.

But more often than not, it’s in the stillness of the night.

It’s usually when everything else has gone quiet that I’m woken, and the information begins to pour in. On this occasion, it was over two nights that the themes of power, discernment, and sovereignty came through so clearly. Not as something I was searching for, but as something that was ready to be heard.

And what I’ve come to realise is that sharing the information as it comes through is part of how I learn it and embody it too. The understanding doesn’t arrive fully formed. It reveals itself through the sharing.

That feels very much like the medicine of winter.

Winter isn’t a season of productivity. It’s a season of presence, reflection, and rest. Nature slows right down, and when we allow ourselves to do the same, we come back into rhythm with something much older and wiser than our minds.

There’s a quiet permission in winter to do nothing when we can. To pause. To sit without filling the space. To let the nervous system soften rather than stay switched on.

Stillness doesn’t have to mean retreating from life. It can be created in small, intentional moments.

Something as simple as lighting a candle can shift everything. A candle can become a signal,  to spirit, to your body, to your nervous system, that you are settling, arriving, and tuning in. An altar doesn’t need to be elaborate. It can be one object, one flame, one place that gently pulls you out of the everyday and back into yourself.

Practices like journaling are part of this too. Not to analyse or fix, but to empty the head and come back into the body. Writing things out allows feelings to move, to be felt and released rather than stored. Often, clarity doesn’t come from thinking harder, but from letting what’s already there have some space.

Working with the cycles of nature reminds us that winter is a preparation phase. This is a time to rest, release, and rejuvenate. To let old patterns fall away. To clear internal ground.

We don’t plant seeds in frozen soil.
We prepare the ground first.

By honouring stillness now, we make space for what wants to grow later. When spring arrives, the energy moves naturally into action, creativity, and new beginnings, but only if we’ve allowed ourselves this quieter phase beforehand.

Stillness isn’t empty.
It’s fertile.

And right now, it’s doing far more work than it might appear.