Learning the Wisdom of Winter

 


Neil gave me a book for Christmas called Morning Meditations. It’s arranged by seasons, which already feels right somehow, and it’s full of small, spacious wisdom. The kind you don’t rush past. The kind that lingers.

One quote has stayed with me this week:
As winter approaches, notice what didn't grow this year alongside what blossomed and flourished. Focus on the things that thrived and not what wilted. Release what didn't thrive and celebrate what transpired.
This is a season to reflect, release, and make room for what is meant to grow in the spring. Celebrate what grew as well as what failed.

What a gentle invitation for the New Year.

I’ve found myself thinking about friendships lately. The ones that shaped me. The ones that faded. The ones that ended without a proper goodbye.
I’ve had many friends come and go in my life, some of them people I once could not imagine living without.

My best friend growing up went to my church. Our moms were close, and our lives were deeply intertwined. We drifted apart for a while, then found our way back to each other during university in Calgary. For a time, our friendship flourished again. And then her marriage broke apart. She needed a new beginning, and our paths quietly separated.

Another friend came into my life in high school after I watched her perform in a play and knew immediately, I wanted her in my world. We learned how to be adults together, moved cities, married around the same time, and stayed connected even when geography pulled us apart. When her life became heavy, the distance grew. Not out of anger, just exhaustion. One day I realized years had passed since we last spoke.

Then there were my seminary friends. Four years of shared questions, shared tears, shared hope. We imagined we would always be that close. Graduation came, life widened, and we scattered. We still check in now and then, but that season now lives gently in memory.

Am I sad about these friendships? Yes. And no.

I grieve what faded. I wish some endings had been softer. But I am also deeply grateful. Grateful for the laughter, the ordinary days, the ways these people shaped me. These friendships did not fail simply because they did not last forever.

The quote invites me to shift my gaze. To notice not only what ended, but what grew. To honour what flourished for a season without turning its ending into a judgment.
Some friendships are meant to last a lifetime. Others are meant to last just long enough to change us.

I am learning to see winter differently. Not as something bleak or broken, but as something quietly beautiful. The stillness. The clarity. The way the landscape rests. Winter does not erase growth, but it does slow it, asking us to stop reaching outward and instead tend to what is beneath the surface.

This season invites us to release what no longer has life in it with tenderness rather than regret. To celebrate what grew, even if it could not keep growing. To trust that slowing down does not mean giving up, and that pauses can be holy.

I am choosing to hold my friendships, past and present, with open hands. Thankful for what thrived. Gentle with what faded. Trusting that beneath the frozen ground, something new is already preparing to grow.

Spring will come. It always does.


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