Mother’s Night, or Mōdraniht in Old English, is one of the most intriguing festivals of the Anglo-Saxon pagan calendar. Recorded only once by the historian Bede in the 8th century, it was celebrated on the eve of Yule, the Winter Solstice, and marked the beginning of the year. The name itself—“Night of the Mothers”—suggests a ritual dedicated to divine and ancestral maternal figures, perhaps akin to the Germanic Matres and Matronae, goddesses often depicted in triads who embodied fertility, protection, and continuity. Though the exact practices are lost to time, scholars believe the night may have involved sacrifices, feasting, and vigils, all centered on invoking the blessings of protective mothers to guide the community through the long winter ahead.
The symbolism of Mother’s Night is deeply tied to the space between—to the fringe, to liminality. The Winter Solstice, being the longest night of the year, is a threshold between darkness and the returning light. To honor the Mothers at this turning point is to acknowledge the forces of survival, resilience, and rebirth. In a society where kinship and ancestry were vital, mothers represented not only biological lineage but also spiritual custodianship. Staying awake through the night, feasting together, and calling upon ancestral protectors reinforce communal bonds and remind participants that survival is rarely solitary—it is collective.
For queer communities today, Mother’s Night offers a profound opportunity to reclaim and reinterpret this historical ritual. Many queer people experience estrangement from traditional family structures, yet we also cultivate chosen families and networks of care that are no less vital. In this sense, Mother’s Night resonates as a celebration of queer kinship. Just as the early English honored their ancestral mothers, queer communities can honor those who came before—elders, activists, and friends who nurtured resilience and carved out spaces of belonging. The multiplicity of the Matrons, mirrors the diversity and expansiveness of queer identities, reminding us that strength lies in plurality rather than conformity.
On the darkest night of the year, queer communities can find meaning in gathering together, lighting candles for biological mothers, queer ancestors, and spiritual protectors alike. Sharing stories of survival, singing, feasting, and affirming chosen kinship transforms Mother’s Night into a ritual of belonging. It becomes a night not only of remembrance but of resilience, a reminder that even in the deepest darkness, community creates light. In honoring Mōdraniht today, queer people reclaim an ancient practice of maternal reverence and transform it into a celebration of survival, solidarity, and radiant renewal.
There is a Buddhist teaching, or more accurately a practice, that encourages us to imagine our mothers across all our rebirths. In this exercise, the answer to the question—similar to the protagonist of P.D. Eastman’s children’s book Are You My Mother?—would be yes in every case. In a cosmology of infinite reincarnation, every sentient being you encounter was at one point your mother, and vice versa.
As the darkness draws around us and we light a solitary candle in remembrance and reverence, let us reflect on the mothers who have cradled us, sheltered us, and supported us. Collectively, we have the drag queen who threw the first brick, we have the friend we confided in, and we have the many women-who-love-women who stepped up for their queer brethren during the darkest days of plague.
The Holly and the Ivy
“The Holly and the Ivy” is one of those carols that feels older than its paper trail. Of all the traditional carols I grew up with, this one always stood out to me. It seemed to hold onto an evocative sense of its possible heathen historical roots. Bringing in the green was a common practice of hanging evergreens around one’s home as a reminder of the temporality of winter, likely predating the Christian era. The song also evokes a sense of motherhood reminiscent of Mother’s Night.
The version we recognize first appeared in print during the 1800s, but the song’s imagery—holly leaves, red berries, winter woods, and the turning of the year—almost certainly reaches back much further. On the surface, it’s a thoroughly Christian carol: holly becomes a symbol of Christ’s suffering and redemption, its sharp leaves recalling the crown of thorns, and its red berries evoking blood. It’s a classic example of how people in medieval and early modern England interpreted spiritual meaning into the plants that remained green and bright through the darkest days of winter.
Beneath that Christian layer, though, you can still glimpse older ways of seeing the world. Long before churches adopted holly and ivy, these evergreens were woven into midwinter traditions as charms of protection and renewal. Holly, with its tough, glossy leaves and bright berries, was linked with strength and protection; ivy, winding and persistent, suggested endurance and a more fluid, fertile energy. Both plants were brought into homes and gathering spaces to mark the solstice and the slow return of the sun. When the carol praises holly and ivy, it’s echoing that long history: a folk memory of earth-centered ritual that the Church didn’t so much erase as reinterpret. In that sense, singing “The Holly and the Ivy” today can feel like standing at a crossroads of traditions—meeting in the green resilience of plants that outlast the winter.