Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times

by Katherine May

There are gaps in the mesh of the everyday world, and sometimes they open up and you fall through them into somewhere else.

Perhaps I was already teetering on the brink of Somewhere Else anyway; but now I fell through, as simply and discreetly as dust sifting between the floorboards.

Winter is not the death of the life cycle, but its crucible.

It’s a time for reflection and recuperation, for slow replenishment, for putting your house in order.

I am baking bagels. Or rather, I’m failing spectacularly at it.

What can you do when you’re already doing everything?

The problem with “everything” is that it ends up looking an awful lot like nothing: just one long haze of frantic activity, with all the meaning sheared away.

This week, I braised a hot pot with lamb, carrots, and thyme, and discs of potato on top. I feel as though I’m cooking autumn into my house.

All this time is an unfathomable luxury, and I’m struck by the uncomfortable feeling that I’m enjoying it a little too much.

In the cold, I find I can think straight; the air feels clean and uncluttered.

I’m certain that the cold has healing powers that I don’t yet come close to understanding. After all, you apply ice to a joint after an awkward fall. Why not do the same to a life?

Winter is asking me to be more careful with my energies and to rest a while until spring.

I make a new ritual for the Christmas period this year, in those twelve days that I always struggle to fill meaningfully. It starts at the solstice and ends on New Year’s Day.

I was already the size of a whale, and I thought they might suspect me of carrying a full-term Jonah.