12/13/2025
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Come closer, little one… mind the hem of my skirts by the fire.
That’s it. Warm your hands.
Some stories come from the long nights.
They stay by the fire,
between one year and the next,
where the old memories hide.
This is one of those stories.
You see that little green plant hanging there above the door?
The one tied with ribbon that makes grown ups smile and whisper?
Most people think it hangs there for kissing.
They laugh about it.
They nudge each other and wait their turn.
But that isn’t why it hangs in this house.
See where it sits?
Right above the doorway, where everyone must pass beneath it.
Not in the middle of the room.
Not for games.
It hangs at the line between outside and inside.
And I’ll tell you why that matters…
Long ago, before bright windows and busy shops, people watched the winter trees very carefully.
They waited for a small green spark among the bare branches.
And when mistletoe was found .. especially when it dared to grow upon an oak.. everyone took notice.
Because oak is no ordinary tree.
Oak holds storms in its limbs.
Oak remembers the footsteps of countless years.
So when mistletoe chose the oak as its home, the old folk said something unseen had touched the forest and left its mark behind.
It was never taken in a hurry.
Never cut by hands that rushed.
It was taken slowly.
By hands that knew what they were doing.
By breath held steady.
By intention kept quiet and sure.
And it was never allowed to touch the ground.... not even for a heartbeat.
It was caught in a white sheet, soft and careful, because once it struck the earth, they said its magic would begin to slip away.
Then it was carried home like a small living guardian.
Not for games.
Not at first.
It was hung for protection.
Over the doorway first... so nothing unkind could slip inside unnoticed.
Above the bed too, to watch over sleeping dreams.
And sometimes near the fire, where worries like to gather when winter is long.
It was there to keep watch.
To turn away sickness.
To soften bad feelings before they took root.
To make the house feel safe when the nights felt very big.
Long before anyone laughed beneath it, mistletoe learned how to heal.
For the heart.
For the blood.
For mothers working hard to bring new life into the world.
For small babies who needed every ounce of help they could get.
The old ones called it the All-Heal, because so many people had been helped by its quiet work.
The kissing came much later.
After many winters.
After many stories had already wrapped themselves around those leaves.
People began to laugh beneath it.
To smile.
To steal warm little moments of joy in the cold dark of the year.
But once… long before all of that… there lived beneath those green leaves a simple, serious promise:
That no harm would be done where it hung.
That peace would stand guard there instead.
And when the dark loosened its hold and the year grew ready to turn again… the mistletoe was never kept.
Keeping it too long was thought to let the old year follow you into the new one.
So down it came.
Into the fire it went....
To break bad luck.
To cut old ties that no longer belonged.
To send worries, sickness and heavy feelings away as pale ribbons of smoke.
The fire did not hurt it.
The fire changed it.
Smoke lifted away what was finished.
Flame loosened what had been stuck.
Ash made sure it didn’t follow forward where it was no longer needed.
That was not throwing it away.
That was letting go.
Of old sadness.
Of tired stories.
Of winters that had done all the work they needed to do.
So if you ever see mistletoe hanging quietly above a door, remember this,
It isn’t there just for kisses.
It is a small green watcher.
A soft guardian at the place where the world goes in and out.
And when the season shifts again…
It will be given back to fire, or earth, or smoke.
So the new year can step inside lightly.
Now then… that’s enough old magic for one night.
The fire is low, and sleep is close at hand.
Now carry the warmth with you into sleep…
and I will think of more old folklore to tell you soon.
Ɓlessed Ɓe ###
