A ritual pressure valve for the scorched and split and a storyspell for those who’ve taken in too much light—and are ready to leak, root, and uncoil into something unrecognizable.
I knew I wanted to make something for solstice, a ritual, a piece. But I didn’t want to do the usual sun-worship, golden light, rise-and-shine thing. That stuff just wasn’t landing.
I kept thinking—okay but what about the dark, the heaping stinky compost?
Not rest. Not pause. Not “go inward and reflect.”
I wanted to know what kind of work the dark does. What kind of repair lives there.
I once read that plants grow more at night—that fascinated me!
They take in all this light, and then they do something with it in the dark.
That just cracked something open in me.
So I asked: What if the solstice isn’t a celebration of the sun, but a call to transmute what it scorched?
What if the shortest night is actually the deepest portal?
I didn’t know what story would come through, but I was excited to find out.
An underpinning question in my exploration was: What if the shortest night isn’t a break from the light—but the only time we actually integrate it?
That’s what this scroll is. It’s what came out when I followed that question.
The more I sat with the solstice and fucked myself with these musings, with the idea of pressure, of compression, of what can only unfold in the dark—this scene came back to me. A BDSM scene. A moment in a dungeon when I cracked—not from pain, but from being witnessed so deeply I couldn’t keep pretending. I’d been mistaking holding it together for healing.
So I followed that thread. And it became this scroll that came out in three parts:
A ceremony. A storyspell. And a little recipe card at the end so you can make your own.
There’s an erotic theology at play here—one where sacredness isn’t measured by light, but by what the body can metabolize without breaking faith with itself.
And somewhere inside it all, there’s a quiet little teaching on ritual: That sometimes, a question is enough. A question can become a myth, a scene, a map.
So here it is. A solstice scroll. A smut spell. A pressure valve. Take what you need. Leave what you don’t. But if it makes you groan a little, or root a little deeper—good.
You’re doing it right.