Coming Home to Light: My Rauhnächte Journey Through German Winter Rituals: Something Stirred. Quietly, Deeply.
I don’t know what called me this year.
My best friend mentioned the Rauhnächte workshop she runs back in my old hometown. Rauhnächte (pronounced row-nay-chte, with a soft “ch” like in “Bach”) refers to the twelve sacred nights between 25 December and Epiphany (6 January). It’s a time when the veil between worlds is said to thin—a season of deep reflection, ancestral wisdom, and quiet ritual.
I’d heard of it before. Never thought about doing it for myself. But something shifted. Maybe it’s because the children are more independent now. Maybe it’s because I’ve grown—two years of writing, reflecting, letting go and coming home to myself.
So I started listening. Not just with my ears, but with my whole being.
And what I found brought me back to my childhood.
To a small Catholic town in Germany where winter had its own rhythm.
We’d gather in front of the church for St. Martin’s Day, every year on 11 November.
We made our own lanterns in Kindergarten and Primary School—paper, wire, candlelight—and carried them through the streets, singing softly Lantern Songs.
Then the play would begin—an actor on horseback, cutting his cloak in half and handing it to a poor man.
That moment always left me in awe.
It was quiet, powerful, unforgettable.
Everywhere you looked, there was an Advent wreath.
In classrooms, in shops, hanging from ceilings or resting on tables.
Always with real candles—dripping wax, flickering light. Made from pine branches or straw with red ribbon and red candles.
I remember the smell. Pine and wax and something sacred.
Each candle marked a Sunday: hope, peace, joy and love.
On the night of 5th December, you placed your shoe outside the front door.
If you’d been good, you’d wake to find it filled with fruit, nuts, a small gift and a foil-wrapped Lindt chocolate Nikolaus.
If not—just a bundle of dry branches, handed out by Knecht Ruprecht.
The tradition comes from the story of Saint Nikolaus, a bishop who lived in what is now Turkey.
He was known for quietly helping those in need—especially children and families.
One night, he heard of a poor man who couldn’t afford dowries for his three daughters.
Nikolaus secretly dropped a bag of gold through the window, enough for the eldest to marry.
He returned twice more, helping all three daughters without ever revealing himself.
His quiet generosity became legend—and the reason children still receive small gifts in his name.
One memory I cherish is that the Hiking Club arranged a walk into the woods with torches, the cold biting at our cheeks.
And then—there he was, St. Nikolaus on his sledge, Knecht Ruprecht beside him.
We had to recite a poem:
“Von drauß’ vom Walde komm ich her, ich muss euch sagen, es weihnachtet sehr.”
I was so scared. And so proud when I said it.
I got my gift. I still remember that feeling.
Two weeks before Christmas, my dad and I would go and buy the tree.
Mama was working, so it was our thing.
The tree was kept outside until Christmas Eve.
Christmas Eve morning, we’d decorate the tree together—baubles, straw stars, wooden ornaments and real candles.
Later that evening, the bell would ring. The Christkind had arrived.
All the candles would sparkle on the tree.
One year, a candle dropped onto my new books. I didn’t care. It was magic.
The Christkind—introduced during the Reformation as a gift-bringer on Christmas Eve—was meant to shift focus from saints to the birth of Christ. But like many Christian traditions, it carries echoes of older pagan rituals. Winter solstice celebrations honoured light returning in the darkest season and figures like Perchta or Holda once roamed the land during this time. The Christkind, often portrayed as a golden-haired angel, became a quiet symbol of generosity, mystery and renewal—layered over ancestral rhythms that were already there.
In older German traditions, pine trees were brought indoors as a symbol of life and light in the darkest part of winter.
Before standing trees became common, they were often hung upside down from the ceiling, decorated with apples, nuts and paper roses.
The evergreen was a quiet reminder: even in deep winter, something living endures.
On 6 January, it was Epiphany—Heilige Drei Könige, the Day of the Three Kings.
It marked the final night of Rauhnächte, closing the twelve-night window between Christmas and Epiphany.
In our town, altar servers dressed up as the kings.
They’d visit homes, sing hymns and bless the doors with chalk: C+M+B. (for Christus Mansionem Benedicat—“Christ bless this house”). It’s a day of both reverence and ritual closure.
I recently read that in older Rauhnächte traditions, the kings were imagined as women. It’s interesting how many Christian traditions absorbed older seasonal rituals and gave them new meaning.
The rhythm didn’t begin with the church—it began with the land, the light, the stories people carried.
As I got older, 6 January became something else entirely.
It marked the beginning of Fasnet season.
I was a founding member of our local Fasnet group.
We designed our own costumes and sketched the look of each wooden mask, which was then hand-carved by a traditional mask maker—nothing borrowed, nothing store-bought.
Each piece was part of the story we wanted to tell.
Our outfits were inspected by the leaders, sometimes items needed to be mended and repaired.
There was music, traditional costumes and a kind of joyful chaos—each one a celebration of spring’s return.
We marched through the streets and chased away the cold with colour and noise.
It was loud, messy and full of life. A few hangovers were also part of it.
A different kind of ritual—but still part of the rhythm
This year, I’ve created a Rauhnächte workbook.
Not as a prescription. Not as a performance.
But as a gentle companion for the twelve sacred nights.
It’s gut-aware.
Rooted in memory.
And designed for real life.
You’ll find simple rituals, reflection prompts and space to listen—
to your body, your dreams, your ancestors, your own quiet knowing.
If something stirred in you while reading,
this might be your season to pause.
To listen.
To let your gut lead.
Add you name to my interest form. Once the workbook is ready, you will be notified.
No pressure. No performance.
Just a quiet invitation to come home to your own rhythm.
Sometimes it’s nice to put in text just to get an idea of how text will fill in a space on your website.
