The Winter Solstice: Finding Light, Community, and Quiet Resilience in Regional NSW
A Small Town with a Big History
Recently, I travelled to Uralla to attend a Winter Solstice celebration. Uralla is a small New England town just outside Armidale, and in the right conditions it will sometimes see snow. It has glorious old pubs and carries the history of Captain Thunderbolt, one of Australia’s last bushrangers. A statue of him sits alongside a strip of shops that cater to both residents and tourists, who park their caravans along the side streets before exploring the hilly main road.
Making Peace with Winter
There was a time I tried to escape winter altogether, heading to the northern hemisphere for Pride season, San Francisco, Hong Kong, New York. After the COVID lockdowns, I’ve been trying to make peace with the cold and accept my distance from the big celebrations. I’m ageing, navigating perimenopause, and parenting a teenager. The bigger travel will swing around again, I hope.
On the edge of town, community members have built a bonfire in a clearing. Food vans and local groups offer an eclectic mix of spiced cider, hot chocolate, sausage sandwiches, chips, and soup.
Wishes, Fabric Strips, and Quiet Hopes
Two women host a solstice wishing tent where you can choose a strip of coloured fabric to write down what you’d like to leave behind, what you’d like to welcome, or your hopes for community. I overhear women talking about their sadness after watching the streamed funeral of Jools Topp from the Topp Twins. I’m briefly surprised, before remembering that this part of New England has a rich and deep lesbian history.
I hesitate over my own wishes, as if there’s a catch. I find myself using too many commas and adding specifics. I’d like to find a long‑term romantic partner, where interest is mutual, who doesn’t expect me to move back to the city. I run out of space on the fabric and the marker bleeds through. I had always assumed I would eventually return to Sydney, or maybe Brisbane, but after thirteen years living regionally, I’m starting to wonder if that’s really what I want.
Knitted Beanies and Unexpected Recognition
At a second tent, knitted beanies and mittens are laid out to raise funds for the women’s shelter. Someone recognises me from TikTok and I’m shocked. We talk about why I don’t make much content now. She says, “Eventually you must run out of things to say.” No, I think, that’s not it. It’s the feeling of time sprinting past, and maybe a vague embarrassment at sharing the ruminations of a nearly fifty‑year‑old. I pick a pair of Doctor Who‑inspired mittens and a yellow striped beanie.
I feel -
for want of a better word - witchy.
Lanterns, Mud, and Magenta Flowers
The local community has spent long hours crafting lanterns of all sizes, lined up on tarps across the slightly muddy ground. One of the organisers taps the microphone, announcing they’re short on volunteers to carry the artworks in the parade. I trek down behind the field to help. A magenta flower feels right, so I lift it and chat with the strangers around me.
As I’ve grown older, I’ve tried to accept that I might be alone in my adventures, so I’m not shy talking to kids about their school lantern projects or making small talk with elderly volunteers. Posing with the flower for half a dozen photographers, I wonder if I’ll ever see their photos. The frog lantern, which needs four people to carry, is new this year and funded by a community grant, I’m told.
The Longest Night and a Tough Pride Month
The smoking ceremony finishes as the last pink streaks of sunlight drain from the sky. The quarter moon hangs bright in a cloudless evening, and we’re wrangled into something resembling a line. We could do with a few strict Mardi Gras marshals about now.
I march next to a woman in hi‑vis work gear and boots. She’s grabbed a giant bee at the last minute, and we joke about how fitting it is that a bee should shine next to a flower as we approach the crowd. The idea, we’re told, is to circle the clearing twice, slowly. I feel - for want of a better word - witchy.
I’m moved by the acknowledgement that this is the longest night of the year. Like much of our community, I’ve had a tough Pride month, feeling the sting of a rollback in acceptance. When someone new moves to Tamworth and posts in our town Facebook group asking for help finding the local queer community, I always jump in with suggestions. But this month I’m told I’ll meet the new resident in hell, that we should check ourselves into the new mental hospital opening. Various slurs and even suggestions of violence are thrown around publicly.
This has not always been my experience locally. In general, I’ve found regional living to be much more accepting than people expect, so the change worries me.
Stars, Smoke, and Collective Effervescence
I’m thinking about winter and my life as I look up at the stars, caught off guard by a tightness in my chest and the rising collective effervescence. I should be used to the overwhelm of emotions that my HRT doesn’t quite manage. I reassure myself that it’s probably appropriate to feel something during a ritual.
After a few false starts, the volunteer at the sound system cues a soundtrack. The reflective mood breaks as the first track is a Star Wars march theme. A few of us chuckle. The children at the back of the parade race to overtake us, and we become a wider, more chaotic group as we loop around.
Firelight, Wishes, and Quiet Hope
I return my flower and circle back to the spot where I’ve carefully set up jackets and a camp chair at the edge of the darkness. A monologue is read to the crowd, reminding us of the return of longer days and hope for a brighter future.
The women from the solstice wish tent, adorned with fairy lights, walk around the bonfire and place the string tied with our manifestations. A didgeridoo plays as the flames catch — with a bit of effort after a damp day. I watch the embers shoot high into the sky and feel my face warm with the heat.
