Darkness, Nourishment

If we let it, winter can strip us down and pare us back to our most essential selves.

Here we are, on the brink of winter solstice, the longest night of the year, the official beginning of winter. I know that fills many of you with dread. It fills me with delight. 

Winter is my favorite season. I find beauty in the stripped down, pared back natural world: where I live, winter is the season of stark trees, bare of leaves. I used to dislike the trees that look dead, until I remembered to focus on the fact that they are most certainly not dead. Deep in the dark earth, their roots are thriving, replenishing, being nourished. And I used to dislike the long darkness of winter, until I learned to stop resisting and embrace it, heeding its call to get quiet, still, and rest. 

It’s common to reference hibernating in winter, but I think we don’t often pause to reflect on what that really means. Hibernating, for animals, is a planned activity, an intentional one. The animals that hibernate prepare for hibernation, stocking up on the nourishment they will need. And they prepare a deliberate place to hibernate, called a hibernaculum, which contains what they will need during their months of rest—namely safety and security. 

I want to invite you to think with intention about your season of hibernation this year. What will help you nourish yourself in the midst of it? How can you create a space—a hibernaculum—that will help you feel safe, secure, and supported in the midst of a season that might challenge you? 

I am more intentional about filling winter days with things I love: creating, writing, reading, taking long walks. Those things replenish me. And in winter, I fill my home with things that soothe me: soft lights and candles to balance the darkness, foods that feel nourishing to body and spirit, and I consciously create places around the house where I can snuggle up under a blanket, get cozy and rest, like a beast. 

Of all the seasons, winter renders us most beast, and to me, that is a good thing. Winter feels to me like the most primal season because we have to devote more attention to primal and most essential aspects of our life: like our need for warmth, shelter, and light. 

If we let it, winter can strip us down and pare us back to our most essential selves. I savor winter’s permission to go inward, to rest, to get quieter. Winter is when I am most creative, most inspired. Because other things have fallen away for the season, those essential parts of me—those roots—get the nourishment they need.  

I invite you to ask yourself: What roots can be nourished this winter? What choices can you make to support that nourishment?