The Sacred Art of Wintering

 

The other day, Neil and I wandered into Mountain Goat Books, a new independent bookstore in Greenwich, near the Calgary Farmers' Market.

Oh, what a beautiful little place.

There is something rather magical about walking into a bookstore that feels as though it belongs in the middle of a forest. Mountain Goat Books has a warmth, a quietness that makes you want to linger. The books line the shelves, each holding a story, a little world waiting to be discovered. It is the kind of place where you could quite happily lose track of time.

And the selection was wonderful.

Now, I don't normally buy books. I love them, but I usually download them onto my Kindle. Yet I really wanted to support this lovely new little shop. So I wandered around, picking up books, reading their covers, and putting them back, hoping something might catch my attention.

Eventually, I found myself in the spirituality section, where a book seemed to be waiting for me. Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times by Katherine May.

I picked it up, read a few pages, and knew it was coming home with me.

The funny thing is that I am not going through a particularly difficult time. I wasn't searching for comfort or trying to find my way through something painful. Yet something about the idea of wintering spoke to me.

Perhaps it was the gentle reminder that we don't always need to be moving forward, figuring things out, or trying to make something better. That there are times when slowing down is enough. Living within the rhythms of our own lives, rather than pushing against them, is its own kind of wisdom.

Or perhaps the trees outside have been whispering the very same thing.

Because, oh, how I love this time of year.

The air has turned crisp. The leaves have traded their summer greens for beautiful shades of gold, amber, and crimson. The mornings are cooler, the evenings arrive a little earlier, and the world seems to be settling into a gentler rhythm.

It is pumpkin season. Sweater season. Soup simmering on the stove season. The season of warm socks, flickering candles, thick blankets, and cups of tea that warm your hands before they ever reach your lips.

It is cozy season.

And I am completely, unapologetically in love with it.

These days, the thought of curling up in front of the fireplace with a good book and something warm to drink is far more appealing than almost anything else. 

Of course, I realize that disappearing beneath a blanket until April isn't entirely practical. There are still people to see, places to go, and a life to be lived beyond the comfort of my favorite chair.

But I have been wondering if there is something lovely about this desire to slow down. Something worth paying attention to.

Last year, something rather unexpected happened.

I fell in love with winter.

Not just the beautiful, Christmas-card version of winter, with gently falling snow and twinkling lights, but winter itself. Its quietness. Its stillness. The way the world seems to soften beneath a blanket of snow.

A particular kind of silence comes after a fresh snowfall. The familiar sounds of the world seem to fade, the landscape softens, and even the trees seem to rest.

I love looking at those bare winter trees, their branches reaching into the pale sky, no longer dressed in summer's fullness.

There is something beautiful about them just as they are.

They are not waiting to become beautiful again in spring. They are beautiful now, in this quieter season, with their branches exposed and their leaves long gone.

I wonder if there is something we might learn from them.

We spend so much of our lives growing, planning, working, caring, and moving from one thing to the next. Our days fill up so easily, often with good things, meaningful things, things we genuinely love.

And yet, somewhere in all that fullness, we can forget the simple pleasure of having nowhere we need to be.

Of sitting by the window for a few minutes longer.

Of watching the leaves drift to the ground.

Of allowing an afternoon to unfold without needing to accomplish anything.

Even rest can become something we feel we should make good use of. We take time off to recharge, hoping to return to our busy lives with renewed energy.

But perhaps rest doesn't always need a purpose.

Perhaps sometimes it can simply be enjoyed.

Nature seems to understand this rather well.

The trees do not apologize for losing their leaves. The garden does not feel guilty when the last flower fades. The earth does not spend November worrying that it has failed because it is no longer producing tomatoes.

It simply moves into another season.

And beneath the frozen ground, where everything appears quiet, life continues in ways we cannot always see.

Roots rest in the darkness. The soil holds what has fallen. Seeds wait patiently for the warmth of another spring.

Something is comforting about knowing not everything beautiful needs to be visible.

Not everything meaningful needs to be happening above the surface.

And perhaps not every season of our lives needs to be filled with activity.

I find something deeply spiritual in all of this.

We sometimes imagine that God is most present in the extraordinary moments of our lives. In the moments of clarity, the unexpected joys, the experiences that leave us feeling wonderfully alive.

But I suspect God is just as present in the ordinary, quieter moments.

In the kitchen, where a pot of soup has been simmering all afternoon.

In the chair beside the window, where we sit watching snow drift through the trees.

In the gentle weight of a sleeping dog at our feet.

In the first sip of coffee on a cold winter morning.

In the silence between one breath and the next.

There is something sacred about these little moments, even when we barely notice them.

Perhaps they are not simply the spaces between the more important parts of our lives.

Perhaps they are some of the most beautiful parts.

And perhaps that is what I have been drawn to in Katherine May's writing. This lovely idea that the quieter seasons of our lives have something to offer us, even when we aren't struggling or searching for answers.

We do not need to be going through a difficult time to long for a little quiet. We do not need to be exhausted to enjoy an afternoon of rest.

Sometimes it is simply enough to notice that the world is changing around us and to allow ourselves to change pace with it.

As I write this, the leaves are still falling. Winter has not quite arrived, although here in Calgary it has never been particularly concerned with waiting for an invitation.

Soon the ground will be covered in snow. The trees will stand bare against the sky. The evenings will grow longer, and the world will settle into another rhythm.

And I find myself looking forward to it.

To the books waiting to be read.

To the meals waiting to be slowly cooked.

To the quiet walks through snow-covered trees.

To the conversations that linger long after the tea has gone cold.

To the small, ordinary moments that make a life feel rich and beautiful.

I know winter is not everyone's favourite season. The cold can be difficult, the darkness can feel long, and there are days when even I would happily trade a snow shovel for a garden trowel.

But I am beginning to appreciate winter for what it is, rather than wishing it were something else.

There is a certain beauty in a world that has grown quiet.

A tenderness in the way snow settles on the branches.

A kind of peace in coming home from the cold, hanging up your coat, and feeling the warmth slowly return to your hands.

So perhaps, as autumn gives way to winter, we might find a little pleasure in the changing season.

Light a candle. Make a pot of soup. Invite someone over for tea. Wander into a little independent bookstore and see what treasures are waiting on the shelves.

Or simply sit for a while and watch the world outside your window.

There is no particular lesson to learn, no great transformation required.

Just the quiet beauty of being here, in this season, in this moment.

And perhaps, when winter finally arrives, rather than greeting it as an unwelcome visitor, we might open the door, put the kettle on, and invite it to stay awhile.

After all, there is something rather lovely about a season that reminds us that even the earth needs to rest.

And perhaps we can, too.