Newsletter: Yule 2025
- Midwest Coven Cast
- Dec 21, 2025
- 8 min read
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Yule, or the Radical Art of Joy
At the longest night of the year, we light candles.
This is not because we are naïve about the darkness. It is because we understand it intimately.
Yule—older than Christmas, older than empire as we know it—is the festival of return. The sun pauses, breath held, and then imperceptibly begins to climb again. For millennia, people who had every reason to despair chose instead to feast, sing, tell stories, decorate their homes, and swear—quietly or loudly—that life would continue. This was not escapism. It was strategy.
Joy, especially in dark times, has always been an act of resistance.
That truth feels especially sharp now. We are living under a renewed Trump administration that has made its intentions clear: to centralize power, to punish dissent, to normalize cruelty, and to grind the imagination down until the future feels small and inevitable. Authoritarian movements thrive not only on fear, but on exhaustion. They want us tired, isolated, joyless, and convinced that nothing we do matters.
Yule asks us to answer differently.
Historically, winter festivals have always carried a subversive edge. Saturnalia in ancient Rome inverted social hierarchies. Medieval Yuletides were rowdy, communal, and unruly, much to the annoyance of church and crown alike. Enslaved and oppressed peoples preserved songs, rituals, and seasonal gatherings that affirmed identity when the world insisted on erasure. Witches—real and imagined—were accused not merely of heresy, but of dancing, feasting, and gathering outside approved structures of power.
To celebrate in the face of control has always been dangerous precisely because it reminds people of their own agency. Joy creates bonds. Bonds create solidarity. Solidarity makes tyranny nervous.
Authoritarianism does not fear anger nearly as much as it fears a population that can still imagine pleasure, beauty, and collective care. A joyful people are harder to dominate because they have something worth defending—and the energy to do it.
This is why, when times get grim, regimes crack down on art, on public gatherings, on education, on ritual, on the very idea of pleasure that is not monetized or state-sanctioned. And this is why witches, artists, queers, elders, immigrants, and troublemakers of all stripes have always understood celebration as a political act.
Let us be clear: joy is not the same thing as ignoring reality. Lighting candles does not mean pretending the night is not long. Feasting does not mean forgetting hunger exists. Decorating your home does not absolve you of civic responsibility.
Joy is not apathy in a prettier dress.
Joy is sustenance.
Burnout is one of authoritarianism’s most effective weapons. When people are overwhelmed, they disengage. When they are isolated, they despair. When they are convinced that resistance must be joyless martyrdom, they eventually stop showing up.
Yule offers a counter-spell: rest, pleasure, beauty, and connection as renewable energy sources for the long fight ahead.
If we want to resist effectively—not just for a news cycle, but for years—we must learn to take care of our spirits with the same seriousness we bring to strategy and analysis.
Capitalism and authoritarianism are intimate companions. Both rely on extraction—of labor, of attention, of resources—and both encourage us to see ourselves primarily as consumers rather than creators.
One way to push back this Yule is to re-enchant the act of giving.
Consider gifts that are made rather than bought, or bought with intention from small businesses, local artisans, mutual aid groups, and creators who are not backed by corporate machinery. A knitted scarf, a jar of homemade preserves, a zine of essays or poems, a playlist crafted with care—these things carry time, attention, and relationship within them. They refuse the logic that says meaning comes from price tags.
When you give this way, you are doing more than exchanging objects. You are quietly opting out of systems designed to funnel money upward while leaving communities hollowed out. You are practicing a different economy—one rooted in reciprocity rather than domination.
Even when money is tight (especially when money is tight), gifting creativity instead of consumption can feel like reclaiming a small but vital piece of autonomy.
Perhaps the most countercultural gift of all is time.
Authoritarian systems thrive on fragmentation. They keep us too busy, too anxious, too surveilled to gather meaningfully. Choosing to prioritize time with loved ones—without productivity goals, without performative consumption, without the constant hum of outrage—is a quiet rebellion.
Invite people over for soup and candlelight. Take long walks. Tell stories. Let children be loud. Let elders ramble. Put your phone in another room and let boredom open the door to laughter.
These moments matter more than they appear to. Shared joy builds trust, and trust is the foundation of any resistance movement worth the name. You cannot mobilize people who do not know how to be together.
In witchcraft, this is called raising energy. In political science, it is called social cohesion. Either way, it is powerful.
Yule decorations need not be expensive, trendy, or disposable. In fact, resisting the pressure to buy new décor every year is itself a political act in a culture obsessed with novelty and waste.
Decorate with what you have. Bring in greenery. Dry oranges and string them with twine. Light candles. Use objects that carry memory: inherited ornaments, handmade garlands, stones collected on meaningful walks. Let your space reflect continuity rather than consumption.
Decorating this way turns your home into a shrine to endurance. It says: we are still here. We remember who we are. We are not easily erased.
There is also something deeply grounding about working with your hands—tying, arranging, lighting—at a time when so much of our fear is abstract and mediated through screens. Making beauty tangible reminds the nervous system that it is allowed to exhale.
This is not a call to retreat from the world. It is a call to fortify yourself for engagement.
Joy does not mean we stop paying attention. It means we refuse to let cruelty be the only thing that animates us. It means we do not let authoritarians dictate the emotional terms of our lives.
A witchy joy is not saccharine. It has teeth. It laughs loudly. It dances badly. It remembers the names of the dead and still sets an extra place at the table. It understands that despair is not wisdom, and that hope is not foolishness—it is a discipline.
When we celebrate Yule in this spirit, we are not just marking a solstice. We are practicing for the world we are trying to build: one where care outpaces control, where creativity outlives coercion, where community proves stronger than fear.
So light the candles. Sing the songs. Give the gifts that carry meaning instead of logos. Hold your people close. Make your home beautiful in ways that cannot be monetized or policed.
The night is long. But the sun is turning.
And joy—stubborn, collective, and defiantly alive—remains one of our most powerful spells.
A Yule Ritual of Making: Paper, Light, and Defiant Joy
You will need: Old newspapers, wrapping paper, magazines, junk mail, or any paper already in your home; scissors; glue or tape; a candle or small string of lights.
Begin by clearing a small space. This need not be ceremonial—your kitchen table will do just fine. Light the candle or switch on the lights and take one steady breath. Say aloud or silently: “I choose joy. I choose to make.”
For the paper chain, cut the paper into simple strips. As you work, notice what you are transforming: headlines once designed to frighten, advertisements meant to convince you that you lack something, glossy images urging endless consumption. Each strip is a refusal. Each loop is a small act of alchemy.
As you connect the loops, consider naming what you are resisting—fear, isolation, exhaustion—and then what you are calling in—warmth, laughter, courage, community. You need not be solemn. If you feel like humming, swearing, or laughing at an absurd headline, let yourself. Joy is not disrespectful; it is defiant.
When the chain is finished, drape it somewhere you will see it often. Let it be imperfect. Let the staples show. This is not décor meant to impress; it is décor meant to sustain.
If you wish, create a second piece: fold remaining paper into simple stars or spirals and hang them near the chain. No measuring, no perfection—only hands moving, breath steadying.
When you are done, look at what you have made and say: “I am still here. We are still here.”
Extinguish the candle or turn off the lights, knowing the work continues—quietly, beautifully, and together.
Shadow Work for Yule: Reclaiming Joy in the Dark
Yule asks us to sit with the longest night—not to rush past it, but to listen to what it has been holding. Begin by lighting a candle or imagining one. Let the flame represent joy not as performance, but as sustenance.
In your journal, start here: When joy feels difficult or undeserved, what story am I telling myself? Trace that story gently. Where did you learn that pleasure must be earned, postponed, or justified? Who benefits when you believe rest, laughter, or beauty are indulgent rather than necessary?
Next, explore resistance through absence: What parts of myself grow quieter when fear or outrage take over? Curiosity, play, creativity, tenderness—name what retreats when the world feels dangerous. These are not weaknesses; they are the parts most targeted by systems that thrive on exhaustion.
Now turn toward reclamation. Ask: What forms of joy feel most “unproductive,” and therefore most radical, to me right now? Write without censoring. Be specific. Small joys count. Especially small joys.
Finally, close with intention: How can I practice joy this season in ways that nourish connection rather than consumption? Let your answer be simple and achievable.
End by thanking yourself for staying present with the dark—and for daring to imagine light as an act of quiet, persistent resistance.
Coven Coloring Club
For this turn of the wheel, as Yule is upon us and the leafy evergreens bring color to an earth that is covered in many of the corners of the north in snow, it seemed appropriate to have our coloring club decorate a holiday wreath. Give this wreath a little color and then share your beautiful creation with us on social media. Either tag us (@midwestcovencast) or us the hashtage #covencoloringclub so we can find and appreciate your beauties.
You can download the file below and either add it to your favorite digital art app or print from an at home printer.
Southern Hemisphere Shout Out: Litha
For those south of the equator, Litha is upon you. We hope our witchy friends below the equator have seen blooms galore and have had plenty of sun to feed the greenery and your souls. The shorter days will be slowly be arriving and we hope your retreat into the darker season is full of joy. Blessed be, friends! If you'd like, you can revisit our Litha newsletter from our turn around the wheel.
Special Thanks
Our patreon coven are the real MVPs of this whole operation. Without their support keeping our podcasts on the air, our website live, and giving us a continual reason to create, you may not be reading this newsletter right now. They really have made this whole thing possible. An extra special thanks to Steve D. and anonymous for continuing to be our top contributors. You both are the most magical people!
Calendar
21 December Yule Begins
03 January Full Wolf Moon (4:02 am CST)
18 January New Moon (1:51 pm CST)
01 February Imbolc
Full Snow Moon (4:09 pm CST)
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