Three Ways to Soften the Advent of Winter

On a sleety November Sunday, when the raw cold pins me indoors surveying a world striped grey, I find my mettle tested.  And yet I am happy, knowing winter is nearing.

I’m still adjusting to the end of Daylight Savings Time, which causes a bump in everyone’s schedule.  We’re all tired and out of sorts. Darkness arrives by 5:15 and creeps in earlier each day until the Winter Solstice on December 21. The dog whines for dinner an hour early, and by 7:30 I’m ready for bed.

In December, Christians practice Advent, marking the approach of Christmas with a candle ceremony.  The word advent, from the Latin advenire, means to come or approach.  I find the weeks approaching winter unlike any other time of year and have developed personal practices to take advantage of what they have to offer.

The natural world has released its flamboyance with autumn’s last flourish, revealing a world stripped down to its structure, the colors cooled to a quiet palette.  The trees, bare of leaves, reveal the detail and variety of their underlying structure.  The sunsets and sunrises become more visible against the filigree of branches.

It’s part of the natural cycle for creatures to seek shelter, plants to throw their seeds on the ground and die back.  A possum takes residence underneath our garden shed, deepening the entry hole from last year, leaving his tiny prints in the dirt.  The pods on the butterfly weed crack open to reveal their tiny parachutes of seeds to be lifted to their next home.

I find these weeks leading up to the Solstice to be a period for slowing down, unlike any other during the year.  Nature is buttoning up and slackening her pace. I take my signal from her.

The shorter days reduce my energy.  The cold draws me indoors, close to the wood stove.  I’m cooking soups and stews, baking pies, knitting, practicing what the Danes call “hygge,” and what some might call cozy nesting.

Does this idea of slowing down appeal to you?  As we approach the season of holiday madness, it is still possible to shift into a pace that mirrors nature and supports your well-being.  Here are three things to try:

1/ Bring nature closer

Find an object to bring inside, a stone, a feather, a pod.  Place it where you’ll see it every day.  I like to have something close to me that will slowly change over time, like a butterfly weed pod or a piece of dried plant.

Spend a minute looking at the sunrise or sunset.  Many mornings, a canine’s wet nose pulls me out of bed, so I am outside to witness the morning sky emerge with its subtle colors. The sunrises can be quietly spectacular, yet quick to disappear, sometimes in a minute or two. 

Take in the night sky.  Sometimes it’s cloudy and bright; sometimes dark and secret.  The moon, the stars, the velvet sky pricked by diamonds, it’s all ours for the watching.

2/ Indulge in rest

Lengthen your sleep time. Go to bed 15 minutes early; stay in bed 15 minutes longer. Slowly lengthen that to a half-hour on each end. This time of year it’s natural to need more sleep.

Take a nap for 15 minutes.  I set a timer on my phone, then read until my eyes close.  A short rest can be surprisingly rejuvenating.

Take a midweek wind-down. Once a week, take a bath or long hot shower.  Crawl under those covers and surrender to the sandman. We do this on Wednesday nights and call it our mid-week wind-down.  It fortifies us for the rest of the week.

3/ Slow down your pace

Do one thing at a time and complete it, even small tasks. 

Slow down your physical walking.  We rush through our lives, and our bodies valiantly work to keep up.  When you feel yourself hurrying, take a breath and ease your pace.  It doesn’t have to be at turtle pace but think leisurely, more like a cat. 

Find a moment of joy in each day. There is always at least one.  Notice it, make a mental note, and before you go to bed, savor it.  Some like to write it down in a bedside journal.

I encourage you to shift your view of this once-a-year time.  It has taught me to savor life in a different, quieter way. See what it may hold for you.

 

Winter's Welcome

December morning, 6:20 a.m.

A waning crescent mooon sits on an apricot horizon, set against a dusky blue curtain.

A half hour later, the road dips in front of me and the sky is webbed with the lacy lungs of trees. The cattle lie in the frosted field, massive black stones. A tall, slim birch at the edge of the field glows snow-white.

I love winter and welcome its invitation to come inside, into the dark, where my spirit rests and is refreshed. Winter beckons me to slow down, to pay attention. Color is not so easy to find, but it’s there if you take the time to look, and it seems more precious because of its scarcity.

The deep textured green of a bit of moss under the pachysandra, the scarlet drops on the winter berry bush, the bronze stains on maple’s bark, these quiet gifts make me pause. I need these infusions of color, these reminders of the life that goes on during the stillness of the frozen season.

I am in search of what’s under the surface. My mind talks, talks, talks, but my spirit speaks in stillness. Its voice whispers, uses fewer words, sometimes not words at all, but an image, a hue, a sense of something. These are the messsages I listen for, and winter brings me closer to them.