Winter of Content

A time of dreaming, wonder & death

Winter was not always my favorite season.

I grew up loving it, spending every minute playing in the snow, building igloos, making angels, watching the flakes lazily fall from the sky, until being called in for hot chocolate and dinner.

Like many school-faring children, I eventually became convinced that summer held the prize. In my teenage years, I scoffed at winter. Wearing layers was annoying. Muck and ice was everywhere. It was cold, dark, and the days were too short.

When it came time to choose a college, I intentionally sought a location with mild winters.

When my body readied for the temperatures to plunge, the skies to fill with moisture, and the ground to be blanketed in white, it just stayed the same as it had been. I appreciated it, and found it strange. On a subtle level, something was missing.

It took living in tropical climates for multiple years to understand that my body craved winter.

In the world I was raised in, success was measured in hard, constant work. Staying busy was a badge of honor.

The season of darkness, of long nights, of frozen air and burning candlelight rooted in stark contrast to the blossoming of spring, the bustle of summer, and the hurry of fall.

Busy, busy, busy.

Quiet. Rest. Breathe.

My body understood that winter was a reset.

My body felt the nourishment brought from the cold.

Invitations for warm, hearty stews and fatty roasts, fresh-baked breads slathered in butter and preserves.

Permission slips for leisurely days by the fire, reading books, writing poems, making magic with the hands, snow swirling around outside.

Snow-capped pines and paper birch beckoning me to bundle up and wander through the richly scented groves, dancing in awe of the newly-created world, a sheet of white, the life of the forest printed in the snow.

My body remembered that winter was for dreaming.

Without winter, when could I slip into a period of many moons, meandering through stillness, in silence, while sparkling flakes fell from the sky? When could I relish the slow pace set by the short days and deep, dark nights where time seemed to slip into another realm? When could I lay upon a pillowy blanket of snow and gaze at the wonders of the winter woods?

All of nature transforms in the season of death.

Trees shed their leaves and drop their seeds, as squirrels scurry to store them before the snow hits. Animals burrow into the mud, into caves, into holes in the ground to sleep off the long period of cold. Few birds stay around, and the morning song consists mostly of wind moving through empty branches.

Life still pulses through the silence.

The heart beat of the Earth thrums from the depths.

A voice croons through the crisp air. She beckons to the world between life and death, the sacred pause, the threshold.

Standing in the frozen landscape, breath of a dragon, clothes of many sheep, the crow calls.

Magic lies in this moment, this precious space before the cycle shifts, before the wheel inevitably turns. Spring will come, the sun will shine, the entire world will be abloom.

Cherish the pause.

Allow the gifts of winter to seep through your bones.

Enjoy the deep rest, nurtured at home.

Let this time be the anchor of stillness, the solid ground from which to weave your dreams.

Embrace the opportunity to quietly reflect, integrate and alchemize all that has been, washing it clean with the snow, setting the dreams of the seeds that will be planted come spring.

New life awaits, for everything.