Bracing for the deep end
The tenderness & teachings of Winter
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A song I’ve been loving:
I logged out and deleted Instagram from my phone for the month of December, as I often do at the end of the year. The extra blankets have found their rightful places on the couch and end of the bed. The kettle is humming, wool socks are always on, lights dimmed earlier, sunset moves out of sight quicker. My eyelids find themselves heavy at around 8:30pm. My joints ache a bit more when I wake to the recent 27 degree mornings — also probably because I’m 35, not 20. I want to do less, which also means there is more time to notice what’s here, to notice what’s floating just inside my chest, to notice what I might normally want to look away from. Winter is coming. And not just outside, in the air — but inside, too.
Despite the challenge of being in the deep end, I crave this time all year. I crave the stillness and energetic settling, the coziness and the curling inward. I crave cups of tea and heaping bowls of homemade soup, soft eyes from good cries and nostalgic reminiscing that tends to happen on long nights. I crave the felt sense of lighting a candle, of closing the window, of putting up the kitschy porcelain Dutch clog decor on the buffet table, of letting the schedule go and replacing it with s p a c e. I crave a slow tuning out of other people’s voices and thoughts and ideas, and a gentle tuning into what is rumbling with me, to the quiet that lingers after the noise decrescendos, to what I’m left with after a year — after life until now.
Part of me always wants to run from Winter — from the depths it forces me to plunge into, from the lessening of hiding places, from the uncomfortable bite of the cold and the tenderness of taking an honest look at what is left of the year that’s passed. Part of me is still conditioned to see the slow-down, the less-and-less, the tired eyes, the deep need for restorative rest as holding me back from momentum and forward movement. Nature itself goes against the pace of capitalism, of wider culture, of demands and schedules, scrolling and consumption, continuous energy and output, and I spend a lot of the year forgetting nature isn’t the thing that is wrong. Nature is so right. And we are nature; allowing it is a gift.
The deeper, wiser part of me knows how needed our own wintering is — how necessary our own fallow seasons are, no matter how inconvenient — how the curling inward is what allows us to unfurl with right timing, with the next bloom, with our own consent and fullest heart intact. I know these darker, shorter days are mirrors. I know how much there is to glean from the discomfort of less distraction. I know Winter is anything but “in the way” of the rest of our life — that it’s an integral part of the whole.
So, I slowly make my soup, hands warmed by the stovetop flame, throat soothed by the sneaked sips of broth. And I take extra time crawling into and out of bed, savoring rest as the way instead of in the way. And I notice when my inner dialogue starts telling me I’d better get a move on or I’ll fall behind, stall out, or stay stuck in the off position forever, noting it instead of believing it. And I let what has been stopped up within me pour out through my eyes and onto the sleeves of my brown knit sweater. And I disconnect from the noise and reconnect to my own longing. And I spend less time knowing what is going on for everyone else so I can spend more time knowing what is going on within me — what can only be tended to when I tune in. And I spend less energy helping and more energy heeding the call inside me. And I keep the kettle on, and spend extra minutes in the car defrosting the windows, and bundle up my daughter in her too-big jacket (it’s apparently impossible to buy the right size anything for a baby-turning-toddler) before our walks, and notice the inconvenience of it all while also noticing just how much closer it all brings me to my own truth, my own self. Winter helps me see & feel the depth, the beauty, of that. I’m alive. I’m alive.
— The ache you might find in your chest, in your bones… the grief or sadness that may arise in the midst of this fallow season… the loneliness or comparison, the missing or the longing, the desperation for light or the desire for more energy… if you experience this, it all makes sense and I wonder if welcoming it, allowing it, letting it be there might feel more nourishing than wishing it away, wondering what’s wrong with you, or clinging to a brighter season that just isn’t here yet but will be soon.
— The joy, the awe & wonder, the delight in tradition or in more rest, the indulgence that shouldn’t be called indulgence but simply enjoyment, the break for those who have one, the quiet time, the spaciousness, the opting out, the boundaries, the reveling in togetherness, the hope, the aliveness of cold nights and lit fires… if you experience this, it also all makes sense and I wonder if you can let it linger longer when it’s there, let it fuel you when it leaves, let it remind you there is still goodness in the world.
— There is nothing to prove. It’s okay to not get the Instagrammable photo or have the ideal December/holiday/close to this year, to not feel like you have a perfectly wrapped up Before & After post about how much this year has changed you, to skip the performed gratitude post and explore what it might look like to not need the validation of others to know your experience matters, belongs, and is enough, in all its humanness. It’s also okay to have/do all of this if it feels aligned; either way, there is nothing to prove.
— With Winter often comes discomfort of some kind (or many kinds). Leaning into discomfort with curiosity, rather than constantly wishing it wasn’t there or would just end already, is a gift to ourselves, a wise mentor, a beloved teacher of learning to be with the fullness of our human experience, and a tap on the shoulder reminding us we can be with the whole of our life, including the stuff we’d rather just wasn’t.
— When you find warmth, savor it. Let it pour into you, wrap you up, hold you. Know it’s there somewhere, even when everything feels a little frigid, a little harsh. Keep the fire on a bit longer. Conjure up heat with creativity, with connection, with comfort.
— Wintering* isn’t meant to last forever — it’s meant to be part of a greater cycle, of the ebb and flow of things, of something more. I know I tend to get real comfortable in the slowness, the doing less, the stuck energy… to the point where finding momentum, action, and movement can feel challenging. I have to be mindful of not lingering in an energetic winter longer than is necessary or helpful; here’s a reminder if you do, too, of how okay it is to move out of Winter when it’s finished with you.
May this time, this part of the whole, bring you something you need.
May Winter mirror something you’ve been avoiding that must be faced.
May it invite extra tending, extra care, extra comfort.
May it allow you to receive the lessons it holds, even when they suck.
May it grip you with its tenderness, as a reminder to be tender with yourself.
May it support you in trusting your own pace, your own timing.
May it offer a fresh lens with which to see things more clearly.
May it bring you delicious soup and warm cups of something good.
And may we all embrace whatever it is we might find here.
Grateful you’re here, as always.
*the first time I heard the specific term “Wintering” was from the incredible
△ This gorgeous newsletter from Sebene Selassie and this conversation on one of my favorite podcasts, Hurry Slowly:
△ Gaslighting is the word for the year
△ Making things with my hands
△ Joni Mitchell, forever. This song always makes me cry. “I wish I had a river I could skate away on”
△ December skies
△ This poem from Brooke McNamara:
FOOD AND WATER
Sit yourself kindly down
and begin to breathe
with and as
the ache of being,
instead of above it.
Remember your first questions.
Enduring and unanswerable,
they can make you
curiosity again.
Gently,
allow your heart to hand you
every last piece
of who you truly are.
This is the food you’ve been hungry for.
This is the water that will quench.
Softly you dissolve
into an undomesticated friendship
with your world.
Enter into it again
with that quiet quivering
in your now more-human heart,
and let an uncaused joy
come out of your eyes —
so the others feel it,
so it’s all of ours
to eat and drink and share.
A FEW OFFERINGS I’D LOVE TO SHARE
-
has an incredible-sounding workshop coming up- My lovely friends Sahar and Elyse created this stunning Ritual Deck
- My online course is “retiring” next year and the price is reduced to $35 until then
- Adriene Mishler (Yoga with Adriene) offers a free 30 day yoga practice every January and I’ve done it many times; it always feels so nourishing and meaningful. I just signed up and might create a chat for anyone else who moves through it in January. The link is here if you are interested!
With care,
Lisa
I always look forward to your newsletters on Sunday, and today was no different. Thank you for the reminder that we’re all moving through our own seasons. I’ve been experiencing heavy feelings all of a sudden. My first instinct is to avoid them, but you’ve offered an alternative perspective that I truly appreciate. Instead of running away, I’m going to lean forward with curiosity and see where it takes me. Thank you for sharing your gift. ❤️
Loved every bit of this. Thank you.