Wintering
“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, maximizing 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 it crucible”
I’ve been meaning to write about wintering. The verb ‘wintering’, meaning to spend or pass the winter. It’s also the title of Katherine May’s book which was published last winter. I listened to her conversation with Krista Tippett on a frosty walk and bought the book to have something to look forward to this October. It’s a lovely book. It reads like a gentle ramble through the harshest months of the year, blending memoir, advice, nature-writing and spirituality. There are a few chapters for each month between October and March, though of course I read them all at once!
The book is about winter as a season, but also our own personal “winters”. The times when life feels bleak, painful and lonely. It’s a book about finding “the most comfortable way to live through [these seasons]”. It’s not about either denying or enduring the pain, but about “active acceptance”. The author travels to Scandinavia to learn from people who winter well. In Iceland, she marvels at “all the life that exists in the deepest cold”. In Norway, she tries to “absorb the connection between beauty and hardiness that exists in this freezing place”. She writes about animals and their “careful preparations..to endure the cold, foodless months”. She tries sea-swimming. She writes about rest, surrender, melancholy and the wisdom that exists in winter.
I’ve always enjoyed winter. I love the weak, watery light; the crisp days; the creeping darkness. As an introvert, I love to spend the colder months cocooned at home. As soon as the clocks go back, I feel my body’s rhythms start to slow. It gets harder to convince myself to leave the house. All I want to do is wear comfortable clothes and enjoy being cozy and warm at home.
I have endured some horrible winters. One year, freezing weather knocked out both the heating and the internet for ten days. It was miserable. I traveled to friends' homes for showers and wifi. For two icy winters, I got up at 6am to commute 2.5 hours across the city. Though I equipped myself well with a warm coat, sturdy boots and noise cancelling headphones, it was still a grueling few months.
Last Winter was desperately lonely. I live alone and endured many, many days of lockdown isolation. I’ll never forget those dark January days and the pang of despair I felt every evening when I checked the number of covid deaths. I desperately wanted to see friends for a walk, though it rained every weekend in January. When eventually we did meet, it snowed on us as we drank our flasks of tea and nibbled homemade cake.
But, we made it through. Every Winter has ended. Spring has always come.
“This is not a book about beauty, but about reality” writes Katherine May. Often what we need to get through the tough seasons of life is not platitudes, but practical advice. Every year, around this time, I get myself organised to get through the season.
I make and freeze soups. (This is a favourite.) I’m also planning to roast and puree my girlfriend’s Halloween decoration pumpkins. (“Whenever you’re done looking at them, I’m ready to eat them!”)
I fire up the slow cooker. There’s nothing like coming home to dinner, fragrant and bubbling on the counter.
I look at the pile of books by my bed and make a plan to finish as many as possible before the year ends.
I look at my goals and plans and decide what I want to tick off before the end of the year. Then I hustle to do those things quickly so I can maximise the amount of time that I have no obligations.
I scour the sales, figure out what I need to buy (for me and as gifts) and get all that done before the Christmas madness starts.
I change the bedsheets, get my cozy clothes ready and dig out the sensory comforts (candles, bath oils, Autumny/Wintery snacks). I get myself some heat tech (from either Marks + Spencers or Uniqlo) and make sure I still have sturdy outerwear. (coat, boots, hat, scarf, gloves). Last year, I invested in some ‘Winter Birks’ i.e. the clog style ones with the fluffy lining. I wear them almost everyday!
I make poetry a part of my day. Poetry collections by the bed/on the coffee table, poetry on instagram, on podcasts. (Try Mary Oliver reading Wild Geese. 90 beautiful seconds.)
I bake things. I revel in the feeling of flour between my palms.
I decide on the handful of social things I’m going to do and decide not to feel guilty about skipping everything else.
Anything that has the potential to make me feel bad, I pause and make a plan to return to it in the Spring.
I prepare care packages to send to pals around the world.
I am proactive about lighting. I start the day with my sunrise alarm. I turn on the lamps as soon as the sun disappears because a warmly lit home is a cozy home.
I make it a priority to walk. Nothing fancy, nothing that requires planning. I just put on my shoes and go.
I stay off social media.
I schedule baths.
I try a little yoga.
I think about some mood boosters: Disney songs, writing gratitude notes, sweet treats.
I prioritise simplicity.
I plan things to look forward to in the Spring.
More on Wintering
The book + podcast. (The book would also be a lovely Christmas gift)
Claire + Erica on mental health + January.
I read “Keep Moving” by Maggie Smith in a tough moment this year. It’s a comforting book about getting through the hard times and would be perfect for Winter.
If you need some company and to laugh, try the Homecooking podcast.
The 7 types of rest we need.
Some simple pleasures.
Recommendations:
Watched Dark Waters on Netflix. A fantastic film that’ll make you very mad at the corporate world.
Rediscovered this horrifying post from Emma Dabiri.
“Part of the guilt and shame that comes with an eating disorder means I didn’t and still don’t believe I was sick enough to deserve the treatment, despite my belief that I would die if I didn’t get it.” Emer McLysaght’s powerful piece on eating disorder treatment in Ireland. More here.
I’ve been reading a lot about queer ecology for an essay I’m writing. The best line I’ve read so far: "The slutty ingenuity of vegetables when it comes to desire and reproductive methods is a marvel that makes a mockery of conservative ideas of the natural”
Gutted by this piece by Brandon Taylor, and also heartened by the comments. There are a lot of us who are alone in the world. It was nice to read from a piece from someone else on the same road.
The jester and the priest. On Fleabag and being trans.
“When we elect political representatives because they are green or orange, we receive the same small-mindedness that creates these restrictive binaries” Great piece by Maeve O’Brien.
Mary Roach’s interview on the longform podcast was predictably hilarious
