Winter Solstice: On Rest, Solitude, and Finding Beauty in the Debris
Inside
A personal reflection on finding solitude at the beach, discovering beauty in debris, and how forced rest during Winter Solstice, the darkest day of the year, brought clarity around expanding my artistic practice to include fine art prints alongside my portrait work.
content Note
This post includes images taken during a recent hospital stay. While most are views are out my window, my bedside view of my room, or intimate self portraits, the hospital setting may be difficult for some readers.
I spent the winter solstice in a hospital
room this year.
The darkest day of the year, and I was lying in a bed watching the light fade early through the window, (I was beyond grateful to have a room with views of trees), this view connected it all for me. As I looked at the trees I kept thinking about what it means to truly rest. To be forced into stillness when everything in you wants to keep moving. To surrender to the dark season, not just metaphorically, but literally.
Winter solstice marks the longest night of the year, the moment when darkness reaches its peak before slowly, the light begins to return. It’s nature’s reminder that rest is essential, and that darkness is not forever. I needed this reminder.
The irony of spending it in a hospital wasn’t lost on me.
A few weeks before I ended up in ER
I did something I rarely allow myself to do: I took time alone, like outside of my home by myself. Trust me, I know I should do this more often but with life circumstances it can be hard so this day was extra special.
It was a rainy day, the kind where the sky hangs low and gray, and I grabbed my new Fuji XT-5 with the one and only lens I bought for it, a 16mm lens.
Side note: I never shoot with a wide angle, but bought this lens to specifically challenge myself creatively and what a treat it has been already. A reminder to use new tools to push your creativity.
Camera packed and rain coat on, I drove to Kits beach. I am not usually a fan of Kits beach, it is typically way to crowded with trying to find a parking space almost equalling a meltdown, but my my cousin who lives near there offered to hang out with my son and she lives by the beach, and mother nature did her thing which meant I had the beach pretty much to myself.
My cousin encouraged me to take my time, not rush back, to go for a coffee.
Even with support in place, I kept doing that thing many mothers do: checking my watch. Have I been gone too long? Should I head back? The guilt kept creeping in, even as I stood on an empty shoreline with salt air on my face and the sound of waves rolling in and out.
And then I stopped myself.
No. Focus. Be present. He’s safe. You’re here to be alone and creative. To feel. To breathe.
So I did.
I walked. I listened.
I let the rhythm of the ocean quiet the noise in my head. And damn it felt good!
As I walked the shoreline, feeling like it was just me and the birds there. Then I came upon I saw them: flowers, lying on the sand. Wrapped in grains of sand, tangled in bits of debris, but still beautiful that they each stopped me to sit with them. Lying there alone, perfectly imperfect. I was in awe, and I felt the tears roll down my face as I took this all in.
I photographed them. Got down low. Captured the way they rested in the grit of the sand, simply existing with their last breaths within. They were still whole.
And I realized I was looking at myself.
Craving solitude. Wrapped in the debris of so much I’ve been carrying.
Still beautiful.
Still whole.
Just needing to rest in it for a moment instead of trying to shake it all off.
That’s the power of being in nature. I was reminded how I need to spend more time in nature, particularly by the ocean as water is my element afterall. I was also reminded that it is so important and healing to take time to connect with myself, to explore my creativity and to allow myself time alone. Something I thought I did but clearly I need more of this.
Back in the hospital room during the winter solstice
I asked my husband to bring my camera, a suggestion of my mentor (thank you Kristine!). Floor two, room 202 and bed two, that was me. The repetition felt like a rhythm, or maybe a sign, though I’m not sure of what yet, if you’re into numerology please share what you make of all these twos!
I photographed the view from my bedside, one handed as the other arm was connected to an IV, limiting my mobility but not my creativity. I looked for the way the light moved across my surroundings and how it added visual interest to a sterile environment. I took over 300 photos and culled them down to 100 (culling is my weakness) as I feel so connected to them despite the bad lighting and crooked framing. I have shared a select few in this post. (side note: one handing a
Fuji XT-5 with a 16.mm lens on it was harder than I thought it would be).
I got to know my hospital neighbor who had stage 4 Cancer, someone my same age, a father to 3 children, a lover of music and technology and from what I could tell a really cool guy. On my last day I asked if I could take his portrait and he agreed, a quiet moment of connection in an otherwise isolating experience. We had brief but deep conversations, and my heart is still thinking of him. I am so grateful he allowed me to capture this moment for him. (photos of Matt shared with permission).
Having my camera with me reminded me that we can find creativity wherever we are, in shitty lighting and mundane or even unpleasant spaces.
The mundane things within my restricted view became subjects. Saran wrap from my breakfast catching afternoon light, textures of the space from blankets and tubes, to chipped paint, the pattern of shadows on the floor, the quiet dignity of someone’s shoes resting nearby. The cords, the wall paint peeling, it’s amazing what happens when we take time to really take in a space.
I took so much joy in the curiosity of it and wondered what would I see when I looked back at these photos? What beauty could I find in the constraints? Let’s just say I love every frame.
So friends, let this be your reminder to work with what you have. Keep looking for the dance between light and shadow, even when your view is small, even when you can’t move the way you want to. Even when this wasn’t in the plans.
That’s where the real creative work happens, not when everything is perfect, but when we make something meaningful from exactly where we are.
2025 has taught me to find poetry in limitation, and that is going to be my intention for 2026, and I can experience these creative stretches without anymore hospital visits.
the sign that said nothing
life savers
The forced rest wasn’t poetic or romantic.
It was uncomfortable. Necessary. Real.
And despite all that I found an unexpected gift in this very unexpected experience; one of time and solitude which brought about clarity.
I’ve been creating portraits that belong on walls, that explore depth and meaning, for years now. This work matters to me. But there’s more I want to explore. Not instead of portrait work, but alongside it.
I want to give the same attention, the same emotional resonance, to the natural elements that move me. Flowers wrapped in sand, coastal mornings, the quiet poetry of what some may find mundane but I see as everyday beauty. Fine art that explores the same themes my portrait work does: emotion, vulnerability, the search for what lies beneath the surface. I also want to do more writing along these themes. I want to explore, share and create connections through my artistry.
This isn’t a departure. It’s an expansion. A natural unfolding, like the light slowly returning after the longest night.
Winter solstice lessons
From what I have learned recently, the winter solstice teaches us that darkness and rest aren’t things to resist, they’re part of the cycle of life. The earth knows and tries to teach us this. The trees know and try to show us this. The flowers lying in the sand remind us of this.
Even in the darkest moment, the light is already returning. Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just gently, slowly, making its way back. As someone who is always playing with light and shadow this all makes so much sense to me, and this year I felt the power of light in such a deep way from within those hospital walls.
I am reminded that we don’t have to fight the darkness we feel. We don’t have to perform our way through dark seasons that we all move through. We just have to rest. To turn inward. To trust that the stillness is doing its work, even when we can’t see the results yet.
And when the light returns, as it always does, we may find something new within us. Something that could only have been found in the quiet solitude of patience and rest.
That’s what this season is teaching me. That’s what this creative expansion feels like. A return to light after a necessary darkness. Not a change, but a deepening.
An honoring of what’s always been true.
1/2 a block of tofu, fancy!
A note of Gratitude
My hospital stay was made much more comfortable by the endless support I was sent through funny memes, visits, and support via texts. I wish I had my camera sooner in my stay to have captured all that came to see me, but I only had it the last three days where most of my time was spent alone or in the company of my husband and nurses (special thanks to nurse Sam who allowed me to photograph her doing my vitals).
Our family has had a hell of a year often feeling alone and without much support, so this was quite the ending. Yet the all the love and support that flooded into my dm’s, visits and kind offerings continues to come our way. As I spend most of my time resting in bed has been so appreciated by us all. So thank you all, with all our hearts. We are grateful beyond words. Thank you also to the staff at Eagle Ridge Hospital for your care.
Special thanks to Kristine Nyborg who encouraged me to capture it all, and to my husband Don who held down so much during this week of uncertainty.
Oh and in case you’re wondering why I was in the hospital, well I still don’t know. What started off as the worst stomach pain turned out to be some intestinal mystery that we are still waiting for more results all. As far as we know it’s not related to my MS.
8 responses to “Winter Solstice: On Rest, Solitude, and Finding Beauty in the Debris”
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A beautiful, introspective peek into your world around Winter Solstice. I’ve found over the past decade or so that when I say “yes” too much, fill my plate with to much, and neglect myself too much, the universe tends to step in and makes me rest and care for myself whether I like it or not.
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Thanks so much for sharing your experience Andrea, it’s amazing what the universe show us that we were missing for so long to see. Rest is so important even when at times we feel like we are ready to get up and go again, we still need to chill, which is what I am doing this week. Hope you have time to rest too!
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Wow. Such a beautiful reflection. I’m sorry that you had to spend time in the hospital, but grateful that you decided to share such a human experience.
This makes me want to pick up my camera far more often…
I also find Winter Solstice to be particularly meaningful. I live for summer, warmth, long days spent outdoors (especially near water). I think of the river in a similar way to how you describe the ocean.
For me, it is always a day to celebrate. The days will finally get longer again. The light is coming back. This darkness isn’t forever. I love how you reflected on these things.
I was just talking to my wife this week about how I want to make our future celebrations more about Winter Solstice than “Christmas.” That was a big “ah-ha” moment for me this year. Your post makes me even more sure of this.
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Please do pick up your camera more often Corey! I am also trying to remind myself of that and will be doing this more often in 2026. I love what you shared about solstice and am really feeling this shift to honouring this time in a way that is connected to the earth over driven by capitalism and ideals that to not align. We can be solstice buddies!
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I love what you shared and although the circumstances were not ideal, I’m glad you were able to slow down and just be for a little while. Can’t wait to see what you share next.
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Thanks so much for taking time to read Jessica! I hope this inspires you to bring your camera to not so ideal situations too <3
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As someone who has spent many, many hours inside hospital walls, I love that you were able to capture these beautiful images. I hate that you had this pain and that you were in the hospital, but do appreciate the art that came from it. The light that emerged from darkness.
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Thank you for your kind words Sara. It’s amazing how creativity, whatever that looks like for each person, can offer us this space to process our experiences. Wishing a creative outlet in 2026, and good health <3
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Thanks for Reading!
I’m Michele Mateus, award-winning fine art photographer based in Vancouver, BC, specializing in editorial portraits for
everyday people.
I work with clients throughout Metro Vancouver and the Fraser Valley who are drawn to imagery that explores what lies beneath the surface, work that prioritizes depth, artistry, and authenticity over perfection.
Ready to create something meaningful?
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