On Wintering

If you are tempted to crawl into bed and pull the covers over your head to power through the bleak winter months, let me invite you to consider another option. Wintering. The natural world operates in rhythms, periods of vibrancy and flourishing followed by fallow periods of rest and regeneration. As creatures of the natural world, we too, should recognize and embrace fallow periods for their necessary goodness.

While a fallow period may be thrust upon as at any season of the year, perhaps due to illness or job loss, we all face the seasonal slowdown of winter. Our schedules may be just as hectic, but the slowing of the natural world, with its short days and diffused light, begs humans for a corresponding rest.

You may wonder how, exactly, this wintering is done. And how does wintering fit with job demands, school snow days, barre class, church, tax filing, and small group meetings? It will look different for everyone, of course, and the length of time devoted to wintering matters less than the intentional space created for it.

Think of wintering as giving yourself permission to do something you crave but don’t have time for. Something unproductive. Something that fills your cup. Something solitary and still. And if nothing comes to mind, you need this more than you know.

25 Wintering Examples

Here’s what seasonal wintering looks like to me:

• I set a few goals for the year in January, but pencil in a start date for most projects after March 15.
• I read at least two novels, allowing myself time throughout the day to curl up in my reading chair and dip into a few chapters.
• I treat myself to a spa bath once a week, complete with candles and luxury bath salts.
• I buy new satin pajamas from Print Fresh. Ridiculously expensive and worth every penny.
• I take a walk in the woods every day.
• I dig out my good camera, charge the battery, and head to the Audubon center to see if I can capture my favorite blue heron.
• I binge watch a chick series in bed, with refreshments, naturally.
• I go to an art gallery or an antique store with enough time for a leisurely browse.
• I make coffee and lunch dates with girlfriends.
• I try new recipes. Something that sends me to the grocery store for fresh produce. Something that requires lots of chopping and slow simmering. Something that pairs well with a fresh loaf of sourdough bread.
• I do a slow read, with journal at hand, of a book that challenges my faith.
• I try my hand at watercolor with an Emily Lex book while I listen to an audio book or a favorite podcast.
• I dink around on Ancestry.com, finding new rabbit holes to explore.
• I work a jigsaw puzzle.
• I take naps with the softest, snuggliest, furriest blanket. And a snoring Labrador.
• I light a candle on my nightstand, on my desk, next to my reading chair, in the bathroom … anywhere I plan to spend a few minutes.
• I listen to Josh Groban.
• I do yin yoga, ending with a long savasana and an eye pillow.
• I drink hot chocolate. The good stuff. With whipped cream.
• I give my birds extra fancy seeds and then watch them from the window as they flutter around the feeders.
• I get a facial. Or a pedicure. Or a massage.
• I call an old friend out of the blue.
• I meditate on gratitude and grace.
• I buy a new plant. With apologies to said plant.
• I collect iPhone photos of winter light.

Retirement affords me the luxury of time that many of you don’t have, but again, it’s less about the time than the intention.

When the world is on fire, it may seem selfish and indulgent to practice wintering, but I contend that we need it most when the world is on fire. There’s a reason the flight attendant tells you to put your own mask on first before assisting another passenger. Wise counsel.

What does wintering look like for you? I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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