On wintering, taking a breath, & paying attention
Constant window condensation, growing icicles destroying roofs, the sad and scratchy whoops of elderly vehicles incapable of comprehending why they are being forced to turn over and awaken from deep hibernation.
The bitter breeze might burn your lungs so try not to gasp when I say—the dark, dreary month of January has always been one of my favorites.
After the rush of the holidays, January has always felt like a month where no one checks in, no one marks progress, and no one plans social gatherings. When I taught 4K, the fall was full of back to school busyness that led into assessment busyness that led into parent/teacher conference busyness that led into school holiday busyness. It was one thing on top of another and no one could catch a breath.
But then came January.
We’d come back from school. We’d perform our well oiled routines with minimal effort. There was no assessing to rush through. There were no holidays to prep for. There was nothing but genuine curiosity and wonder. We’d slowly continue to learn. The kids would make more art. We’d get more fresh, crisp winter air. I’d whip out the electric tea kettle and pass out small cups of hot chocolate while the littles’ played.
Maybe you think I’m lying. That all sounds too good to be true. Like a perfect little cozy place you’d want your little ones to call home during the day.
That was always the goal. And January made it possible.
In my adulthood, January has naturally felt like a month of cozy. A month of no pressure. A month of being at ease. A month of steaming tea, wool socks, and oversized sweaters. A month of unmeasured laziness.
Now as a mother, I actively choose to practice coziness in January. This year, it has felt especially important. In October, we experienced a miscarriage in the middle of a kitchen renovation (an actual renovation—our kitchen was down to the studs) that needed to be at least somewhat finished solely by the hands of my husband before we hosted Christmas. As if Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and three tiny humans with big emotions and constant needs wasn’t enough. It was a full few months to say the least. Having a “planned” month to rest and renew some sanity has seemed more like a necessity.
It was only recently that I learned some people call this—wintering.
Previously, I would have only used wintering as a term used to describe something in nature, like what birds do during the cold season. Technically the term used in nature is “overwintering” but the six times I’ve used the term in my entire life, I’ve used “wintering”. Like, birds winter in the south. Or those plants won’t winter well.
In the book, Wintering by Katherine May, she references our seasons of grief or stress or chaos as seasons of winter. When we experience these seasons of winter, it’s important to feel the season, allow it in, allow it to pass through, and allow it to help us be renewed.
We are to invite winter in, not in a way that consumes us, but in a way that renews us.
May quotes, “Plants and animals don’t fight the winter; they don’t pretend it’s not happening and attempt to carry on living the same lives that they lived in the summer. They prepare. They adapt. They perform extraordinary acts of metamorphosis to get them through. Winter is a time of withdrawing from the world, maximising scant resources, carrying out acts of brutal efficiency and vanishing from sight; but that’s where the transformation occurs. Winter is not the death of the life cycle, but its crucible.”
The language of our internet, however, sounds much different—
Push ahead. Push ahead. Get in front.
Why am I so mesmerized by the winter birds devouring our feeders?
The birds go about their days, simply being.
They aren’t scurrying around, desperate to find a way out of the season. The birds that stay here in the winter could fly to a warmer place, but they don’t. They’re fine here.
They choose to linger in the cold and we get to gape in awe.
I am captivated with the chickadees, the cardinals, the nuthatches, the juncos, all playfully hopping about, snacking away, living with less of a crowd.
They do not appear to be merely surviving.
We’ve been enjoying the slowness of January in a few of my favorite ways.
Few plans, lots of warm tea and time at home, a bit of decluttering, a bit of planning and mental clarity, and lots of reading and writing and creating and processing.
If you’re a parent (especially), you’ll love this prompt by Michelle Windsor. You can think on it, photograph it, journal it, or jot down a quick note wherever you keep family memories written down. In her most recent post, Michelle Windsor prompts us to think about what we noticed this week, what we want to remember.
As I read her post, I thought of a reoccurring moment that had happened a few minutes prior. I’ve never written the moment down before because it happens every day right now. It doesn’t feel special. But this has happened before. And when the reoccurring moment stops happening, it starts to be remembered as special. Unfortunately, while the vague memories remain, the details grow foggy.
I often think, “I should write this down, capture exactly what they said…I’ll write it down when I walk downstairs…I’ll get to it in a minute.” When in a minute arrives, I’ve forgotten.
I’ve cursed myself for this more times than not, but today, here is your invitation to write down one small moment you noticed or want to remember. Thanks Michelle Windsor for prompting us to take notice.
Here is a poem I wrote using her prompt:
I Want To Remember
I want to remember
the way you crept down the stairs,
daze fading
blanket trailing
the way you peeked your head
through the crack of the door
to see if I waited on the other side
the way your nose crinkled
when our eyes met
how with no hesitation,
you jumped into my arms,
wrapping all your limbs
in a tight koala hug,
pulling back for the perfect kiss.
I want to remember
how all of this
takes me back
to our living room carpet,
criss cross, arms open,
waiting, watching.