A Minoan Winter Solstice Story
A preview of my upcoming Minoan mythology book
The Ariadne’s Tribe community asked for stories about our deities, and I’ve spent the past several years, in between other projects, crafting a collection of modern Minoan myths.
The manuscript is out with beta readers now, so there may be some minor changes before publication next summer. In the meantime, I wanted to share some of them with you.
Since we’re just a few days away from Winter Solstice here in the northern hemisphere, today I’m sharing the Winter Solstice story with you. In Ariadne’s Tribe, our myths are intricately linked with our sacred calendar, so in the book, they appear in the order that we encounter them throughout the year.
Just to be clear, the illustration above is NOT the one that will go with this story in the finished book. It’s a painting I did back in 2017, to commemorate the Winter Solstice that year. I’m creating all new art for the book.
So here you go, the story of Midwinter, Minoan style:
A very long time ago, there was only the Sun Goddess Therasia, rising and setting each day by herself with no need of a consort. Every year she grew stronger and brighter during the summer, shining down fiercely on the date palm trees that were sacred to her. And then her strength waned as the year circled toward autumn, her heat and light dimming slowly day by day. Finally, she shrank to her feeblest state as the Winter Solstice approached, so weak she could barely move from one point on the horizon to another as she rose each morning. She could no longer lift herself high in the sky, but kept close to the horizon in her exhaustion.
The people called this time Therasia’s Labor, for during these days she worked as hard as a human woman in labor. But while a human woman strove to birth a child, the Sun Goddess toiled not to birth another, but to rebirth herself.
At this time of year, she rose every morning as the constellation that some people call Sagittarius was fading out just above her: her sacred cave where she retreated in the winter, her sanctuary at the southern doorway to the Underworld. Therasia’s Cave stands on one side of the Milky Way in the night sky, and her fabled Griffin, the constellation that some call Scorpio, stands on the other, guarding that doorway. To this sacred place the Sun-Mother retreated as her power waned, until one day she grew as weak as she could possibly be.
When this day came, she knew what she must do: die to herself so that she could be reborn. So she stopped trying to shift along the horizon. She stopped laboring to be brighter. Instead, she circled the Earth along the same track, rising at the same point every morning, no longer swinging along the skyline but simply staying in that one place, as if she had died.
And so she did. On the longest night of the year, she gave up and gave in. She fell into the darkness of that night, falling, falling, out like a light, into the depths of her sacred cave. But like the Phoenix, like the Benben Bird, the next morning she rebirthed herself from the ashes, catching fire, flaming out of her cave and up over the horizon at sunrise, climbing high into the sky to begin the next year’s journey again in all her glory, growing stronger and brighter day by day.
This is how it was for ages. But then the times changed. New people came and brought new ideas with them to add to the old ones. To them, the Sun was not a goddess but a god. So they sought out the Sun God on Crete, and what they found was enough to satisfy them—for a time.
Now, the Vine God Dionysus dies at the end of summer during his harvest, the Feast of Grapes. And though the deities are different from humans in many ways, we like to find similarities so we can understand them better and feel closer to them. So if Dionysus dies with the grape harvest this year, and he dies again with the grape harvest next year, he must be born sometime between the two.
In ages past, he was simply the Vine God, the ecstatic Undiluted One who acted as a psychopomp to his people. But eventually he came to represent the solar year during which his sacred vines grew and bore fruit and shed their leaves to rest and sleep, only to begin the cycle anew. This is not quite the same as being a Sun God, but for many people, it was enough. For a time. Here, then, is the story of his wondrous birth.
*****
There was no mistaking; the time had come. Knowing that her child would soon be born, the Great Mother Ida, who is also Rhea Pandora the All-Giver, sought out the sacred birth tree on the eve of the Winter Solstice. As dusk approached, she gazed out and saw the star hovering above the beloved fir tree, showing her the way. Quickly she went there and sank down beneath the tree, her back pressed against the trunk, waiting. She knew this special tree was a conduit to the Underworld, the abode of the Ancestors and the place from which the soul of every new child comes with Eileithyia’s help. So she waited as her body began the long, arduous process of birth.
Suddenly she felt a prickling down her back. The world wobbled, and the air shimmered, and she placed her hand on her belly. Beneath her palm she felt the tightening of a contraction, but she also felt something new—the soul of her son, returning from the Underworld with Eileithyia’s guidance, soon to be born into the world above once again. With a joyful smile she took a deep breath and heaved herself up. She would need more protection than just the shade of a few branches before the night was through.
The way was dark, and Rhea was already tired, but soon the people felt her need and lit many lamps, setting them in their windows and courtyards to light her way. She moved slowly, heavy with her labor, until she found safe haven in her precious cave deep in the mountainside. There she rested and waited for her baby to be born.
As the night progressed, so did Rhea’s labor. In the darkness that stretched on for so long and seemed like it would never end, she heard the people singing down in their towns and villages, songs of sweetness and joy to help her through the night. She felt the light of their lamps and the warmth of their love as her body heaved and rocked with the work of bringing a child into the world.
When the darkness had gone on as long as a night can possibly continue, the dawn finally began to break. As the first faint rays of light eased up over the eastern horizon, Rhea dug her fingers into the Earth beneath her and gave a great push, then another, and another. She breathed in, and she breathed out, and at the moment the Sun’s disk began to slide up above the horizon to light the sky, her son was born. She cried out in joy, and the whole island felt her delight.
The tiny infant, the Divine Child, was so precious that many deities were blessed to care for him. In addition to his own mother Ida, the goat-goddess Amalthea nursed him, and the Melissae, those ancient bee-spirit goddesses, fed him on honey. And the people gave thanks.
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About Laura Perry
I'm an author, artist, and creator who works magic with words, paint, ink, music, textiles, and herbs. I'm also the founder and Temple Mom of Ariadne's Tribe, a worldwide inclusive Minoan spiritual tradition. My spiritual practice includes spirit work and herbalism through the lens of lifelong animism. I write Pagan / polytheist non-fiction and fiction across several different subjects and genres. I'm currently working on an illustrated book of modern Minoan myths and a Minoan entry in the Moon Books Pantheons series (now available for pre-order, release date 26 August 2025). I’m also an avid gardener and living history demonstrator.
Wonderful! This is just the "back to basic principles" essay I find incredibly helpful (as will others, I am sure!) Thank you!
Oh wow, I have always been fascinated with the minoans, so this story really caught me!