Wintering in late summer

On surrender, trust, and telling it like it is.

I find myself in a metaphorical winter.

A friend pointed it out in a conversation this week, and at first, I was annoyed (who needs this shit??), and then, I was relieved. Of course I am wintering. My whole body sighed because I stopped arguing with myself.

Katherine May, who wrote the book Wintering, defines this phenomenon as a fallow period that is, “part hibernation, part resignation, part devotional activity.”

Culturally, we don’t winter well.

I am impatient with myself, believing that if I understood WHY I am here, it would provide a way out. Could it be perimenopause? Is it finally having the space to process repeated moves and the residual exhaustion or deployments that left me a single parent for years at a time? Maybe it is the eerie quiet of a nest recently empty? Or grappling with the realities of aging parents. I reach and stretch out and away from the swirl, trying to escape the waves of grief, anger, and confusion.

I don’t know why we try and escape these particular hard feeling states, but I know why I do - a part of me is terrified I’ll *always* feel this way. Not only that, but it seems that embracing wintering is a sure fire way to be avoided by other humans - like it’s a contagion.

The only way through is through.

I recall saying that to a dear friend many years ago when she was struggling, and this is the phrase that returns to me. This is where I find myself and the only place to be is where I am - winter inevitably ends and spring will arrive. I know this from weathering many proverbial winters - in fact, I wrote down the “big winters” I recall and somehow, that helped me take a deep breath and claim my place.

If I can trust that winter is just another season, then I can surrender and trust that all will be well. I create a nest, making ready my trusty supply of books, candles, journals, and cashmere blankets so I can turn toward the depths of winter and rest. The irony is that in doing so, I find a sweet wellspring of joy in the aliveness of my winter.

May you allow yourself the grace of wintering when the season is upon you.