between the well and the fire
summer solstice thoughts on Sulis and the paradoxical light
Dear reader,
You usually hear from me on Sundays, but I want this to come to you before the Solstice, so that we may flow together towards it. I hope you enjoy this one, and if you do, please let me know by tapping the little heart or leaving a comment on Substack. I deeply appreciate it.
I don’t know if it’s the solstice or the migraines I constantly battle with or the fact that I’ve been on the verge of a house move for weeks now, but something in me is both glowing and aching. I wake up with sunlight on my skin and go to sleep with a heavy chest. I walk barefoot through blooming gardens and feel the old stones of grief pressing under my feet.
There’s a word I return to again and again this time of year: paradox. The sun is at its heigh… and already waning. We celebrate abundance, and yet we know it will pass. The wheel turns, always. This too shall pass, I have it written on my wrist. Well, that means the bad and the good times.
This solstice, I’ve been sitting with Sulis.
She is the goddess of the hot spring that still flows at what we now call the city of Bath, in England. It is the only hot water spring on this island, rising warm from the belly of the earth, carrying minerals and memory.
Long before it was a tourist site with Roman ruins and Jane Austen souvenirs, it was sacred ground. A place where Celtic women prayed, where waters steamed with devotion.
Sulis is solar and watery. She glows and steams. She heals with heat. And she does not shy away from the underworld of pain, injustice, and the body’s deep remembering. Her waters rise hot from deep underground… just like truth, just like anger, just like grief.
Here's my podcast episode about Her, the solstice and the cancer moon, in case you prefer audio:
When the Romans arrived, they didn’t dare to replace her, as they usually did whenever they conquered a people. You don’t just replace language, you replace gods, and they knew that very well.
But they knew she was not just powerful, beloved… she is vengeful and dangerous as well. Instead, they merged her with Minerva, their goddess of wisdom and war. Sulis Minerva, they called her. It was a political move, really. One part reverence, one part control. But Sulis remained. In the steam, in the bones of the earth, in the prayers etched on lead tablets and offered to her sacred spring. These weren’t all prayers of peace and gratitude… they were pleas for justice, revenge, protection. Sulis, like the sun, can burn. She does not heal by hiding pain, but by illuminating it.
I’ve been to Bath. To my disappointment, the museum didn’t really mention Sulis as a Celtic deity, only that the spring was "probably" dedicated to a local goddess, despite the historical and archeological knowings about her. But I felt her. I knew. I brought a small pouch of my crystals, whispered into the water, sang, did my prayers and offerings. Some beings don’t need plaques to be remembered. The water remembers. The land remembers. So do we.
So here is my invitation, as I hear in her presence now:
to honor what is glowing, and also what is hard. To sit with the heat of our becoming. To walk barefoot, even when the stones are sharp.
This year, the solstice comes with a Cancer New Moon right behind it: a moon of softness, protection, and emotional tides. It wraps the fire of Litha (pagan name for the solstice) in a watery cloak.
It asks: what are you holding that no longer serves you?
What might be blessed if you let it go?
The Cancer New Moon invites us to turn toward home, toward the emotional hearth. To melt into ourselves. To cradle what is tender inside. There is no need to rush. There is only the rhythm of your breath and the pull of the tide.
Let’s take a moment to remember that Litha, the summer solstice, is not only a celebration of the sun, but also the beginning of its slow descent. The longest day, yes, but also the start of the return to shadow. In some Celtic traditions, this is the moment the Oak King, who rules the waxing half of the year, hands over his reign to the Holly King, ruler of the waning half. A shifting of seasons. A necessary turning.
We often think of light as triumphant, but it can also be overwhelming.
The solstice invites us to ask:
what do I do with my radiance?
What do I burn away?
What do I need to warm up?
Here is a small ritual:
Sit by water if you can, or prepare a bowl to soak your feet… or better yet a bath to soak your whole body. Add something that carries the sun, like marigold, rosemary, citrus peel, sunflower petals, and something that cools such as mint, rose, mugwort, peppermint... Light a gold or orange candle. Near you or in your hands a citrine or carnelian stone. Sip something sweet, tea with honey or summer fruits... Touch your skin with reverence. Let this be an act of blessing. If you feel it, call to Sulis, ask her your questions. Hear her answers, even if they are just silence. Say aloud what you are releasing. Say aloud what you are calling in.
Breathe. Let the water hold what you’ve spoken.
And if nothing comes… let that be sacred, too.
Holy nothing, Santo Nada (once my teacher Dr. Estés told me about the teachings of Santo Nada, I will write about it one day…)
Here are some prompts, if they feel good to you:
what would it mean to choose radiant presence instead of constant productivity?
what stories about healing do you need to unlearn?
where is your fire being wasted? where is it needed?
May Sulis bless your brightness and your shadows. May this solstice be both flame and refuge. May you walk through it with tenderness.
Wishing you a blessed Solstice under the new moon,
Marianna
If this touched you, I’d love to hear from you. Please click the little heart, send to someone who needs some warmth or reply to this so we can open this circle more and again. Thank you for being here with me.