Seeds Steeping in the Dark: Full Moon Reflections

Hello love,

With the start of 2026, my inbox was full of new year goals. This felt overwhelming. Winter has only just begun—a season when the earth goes dormant, when we hibernate, gather around the fire, share stories, and be in community. It’s a time to rest and rejuvenate, like the dark moon.

We have four seasons in Colorado, and my body has always been attuned to them—even when corporate America pushed me to produce year-round. I still honored what I needed: more rest, warm beverages, a mindful to-do list, and “me time” blocked off on my calendar.

Setting yearly goals stopped resonating for me many years ago. I always felt like goals were a hurdle I had to jump over endlessly, like running laps on a track with no real beginning or end. I began living with intention, making space for what I wanted to nurture within myself and in my life. I started asking myself so many questions:

How do I want to show up for myself?
What isn’t working anymore that needs to change?

I treated my life like a living experiment—gathering data, listening closely, asking myself deeper questions:

How do I want to show up for the world around me and in my relationships?
Where am I feeling drained?
What brings me joy?

Shifting from goals to alignment with my truth, toward how I wanted to walk through the world, changed my life in the best way. I started a yearly practice of picking a word of the year, sometimes two, as my north stars. For 2025, my words were trust and alchemy.

Trust carried me all year. Alchemy arrived later, about halfway through, where my inner and outer worlds began to meet. This was a huge period of growth for me, and also a messy one. Walking in two worlds, one foot in each, waiting to see how I would be transformed and reborn from this liminal space.

Since the Solstice, I’ve been sitting with these two questions:

What do I want more of in my life?
What do I want to let go of?

These are seeds steeping in the dark. Each time I return to them, something new emerges.

My Solstice began with a trip to the Denver Art Museum. I first stopped, as I always do, at my favorite painting on the second floor—The Family of Street Acrobats: the Injured Child. From there, I made my way to the seventh and final floor of the Hamilton Building. With each visit, I explore a new floor, and this felt like both an ending and a beginning—perfectly timed for the Solstice.

Before leaving, I returned once more to the second floor to say goodbye to the family of street acrobats. This has become a ritual for me—the hello and goodbye. Every time I see it, something shifts. I feel something new, or notice something new as I gaze upon this family.

People find this painting to be too dark. I find it healing and true to life. The love I see and feel when I look at this painting, the way the people come to life as I stand there, the sadness and heartache, it feels like a portal. I want to step through it. Reach out and hug each of them. To sit beside them. To cry with them. We don’t know what our future holds when we walk through the world, and this piece reflects that so beautifully.

My chest expands, tears fill my eyes and I always—always—hold my breath. Sometimes I’ll gasp as if I’m seeing this painting for the first time. I have goosebumps right now—the same goosebumps I get every single time I stand there in awe of this piece.

Afterwards, I stopped by my favorite local bookstore where I discovered new poetry books and said my goodbyes to the used books section. They’re downsizing and focusing solely on new books starting this year. I have found so many gems here—used cookbooks with handwritten notes in the margins, recipe cards tucked between pages, poetry, art, and picture books no longer in print.

There are memories here, too: book readings and signings, picnics on the patio, celebrations of all kinds with the community. In many ways, it’s been a second home, where I’m always greeted with kindness, warmth, and a shared love of books.

I meandered to a local coffee shop to catch up with a close friend and was delighted to see and connect with many of my friends who were there. I was treated to a hot chocolate, topped with whipped cream, followed by a spicy chai—both made with love. I’ve become a regular here, where time slows, conversations enrich and surprise me, and I’m continually inspired by the vulnerability, laughter, and connection that unfolds.

I had a great conversation about music with someone, a sound engineer, who played Juno Reactor in the back of their van with a massive sound system and bass pumping. This transported me back to my college days of late-night clubbing and raves that lasted until 6 AM the next day. We’re old school—trance, house, techno. We talked about the different shows in Denver that are still going on, a scene I haven’t been a part of since I graduated college, due to working a nine-to-five and “adulting.”

Leaving that life behind was rough, even though it was so pivotal to my growth in my late teens and early twenties, where I discovered amazing DJ’s and genres that still exist to this day. I still listen to these DJ’s, but I’m no longer part of the scene that transformed me and how I see and experience the world around me. The underground scene that is close to my heart, almost thirty years later.

Under a pinhole sky and a winking moon, I walked through my front door around 4 AM. Before crawling into bed, I wrote, reflecting on my day and the miracles all around me.

With love,
Naomi