Sitting With the Unknown: Winter, Kidneys, and the Quiet Work of Becoming
I sit here feeling uncertain. I just returned from a walk—one I didn’t know I needed as much as I did. Before the ER visit, before this whole unraveling began, I had already felt winter creeping into my body. The familiar dread of longer nights, more time indoors, less warmth, less sun. My body was craving hibernation, a deep slowing… and yet my mind kept whispering, “This is depression.”
But is it?
Or is it the echo of centuries of conditioning—this belief that we must always be productive, always striving, always building, earning, climbing? I’m not sure. What I do know is that I miss the sun. I miss the effortless ease of summer days with my three children, and the simplicity of just stepping outside without layers, planning, or resistance.
Still, each time I push myself to go outside—to breathe the cold air, to put my feet on the earth—I feel a soft grace wash over me. A flicker of hope. On today’s walk, I stopped to admire the tall oak trees, their branches bare, their leaves long gone. And yet they stood strong and unapologetic in their rest. They didn’t question it. They didn’t fight it.
They simply knew: this is the season for stillness so that spring can come.
Now, sitting in the quiet—my youngest asleep, my older two at co-op—I feel that same invitation to rest, to listen, to let myself be held.
Lately, my thoughts have been circling around generational trauma and the ways it shapes the body. Today I felt called to look up the spiritual symbolism of the kidneys, the very place my doctors are watching closely right now. What I found stopped me:
“Kidney symbolism relates to the deepest emotions, will, wisdom, and moral discernment… often viewed as the seat of inner life.”
If that doesn’t land like a truth-bell.
Because that’s exactly what’s stirring within me—the ache of old stories, the movements of something deep preparing to rise, the sense that more healing is surfacing before I can fully step into my next chapter as Shaman.
My work right now is to sit with the unknown and feel everything that comes with it.
The guilt.
The longing.
The fierce love.
There is a part of me that craves more space from my children—a part that is tired, overstimulated, stretched thin. And yet, just nights ago, I cried at the thought of ever having to leave them behind. Writing this, I see the paradox, the bridge I’m always weaving between earth and sky, motherhood and selfhood, human need and spiritual calling.
It’s all part of the journey.
And as I sit here, I feel something wrap around me—a blanket of love, or maybe recognition. Behind my closed eyes, I see inflammation inside my body, lit up as if asking for my attention. And behind that, I sense the presence of the women in my lineage. Healers. Keepers of fire. They gather behind me, guiding me toward the flames, inviting me to sit down and listen.
The chills move through me.
I know this is channel.
There is a message forming, not yet ready to be spoken.
One I’m meant to sit with, to breathe into, to let ripen in its own time.
In time, my loves.
In time.
In Peace, Love and Service,
Rebecca
