Rethinking winter

The longest night of the year is at our doorstep. As cold seeps in and early morning light becomes a fading memory, I catch myself contemplating the upcoming season. I’m not a winter person. The humdrum of winter does not ring my bells. It’s too long, it’s dreary, dark and cold. I don’t come alive in the winter season, definitely not.

But perhaps winter is just different. It’s not obvious like summer or loud like spring. It’s not seductive like autumn. Perhaps it keeps its gems under layers. The quality of a recluse seems to permeate its essence. Yet we need not be as quick to deem it unfriendly or hostile. We might just need another approach to be able to see the wonders it stores within.

This winter, I want to approach the season differently. Instead of dreading its cold and slow passage, I want to learn how to create ‘warmth’ and ‘light’ myself instead of taking it for granted. Maybe it starts with leaving the fairy lights on after Christmas, or lighting a candle during those dark, ungodly waking hours of mine. With warm socks, oversized sweaters, and a water bottle dressed in fluff for the long hours spent behind a desk. With cooking nourishing food – soups, casseroles, pies, warm bread on Sunday mornings. With steaming cups of tea, pots of fresh black coffee and a glass of red wine here and there.

But most of all, I want to honour what winter grants nature so freely: time to rest. This is no easy task in our times. And rest does not necessarily mean staying in bed all day – though sometimes that is exactly what it takes. Rest might look like an evening walk with an audiobook, starting a puzzle, crocheting, meditating, doodling, painting your nails, or meeting a friend for coffee. Anything that brings a sense of peace. This is what rest means to me.

This winter, I choose to rest on the page – reading, researching and reflecting on the old and the new; on the season’s quiet charms and the art of slowing down. You are welcome to linger here, at your own pace.