When I first heard about Katherine May’s book, Wintering, I was immediately compelled by the subtitle, The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times. While I enjoyed elements of the book, I found myself unable to resonate with it in my own experience of winter. Perhaps my reading of this book on the heals of my grandfather’s death is the reason it left me spiritually wanting. I needed something that I could read alongside my grief and Wintering was not it. With this said, there were truly beautiful anecdotes scattered throughout May’s writing that were thoughtful and compelling. Rather than reflecting on what I did and did not like about the book, I have chosen to write about rest and winter in a way that feels honest for me.
As someone who lives for summer, I anticipate winter with the gusto of one preparing to do a hard thing. Though I am willing to hike on snowy days, dredge through freezing rain to simply embrace nature in all its forms, so many days are at home with stuffy noses and persistent coughs. This winter alone our family had the flu, Covid (for the second time) and a series of colds that keep the kids home and momma tired. I trade my clippers for my keyboard, writing proposals, preparing production schemes and putting flower lists together for the year’s weddings. Winter is not void of work but it is a necessary time to break from certain tasks. Pausing the production of weddings during the season when flowers are not in bloom allows me to focus my energy on planning and preparing for the events ahead in order that they may flourish in the spring, summer and fall.
Rest does not mean sleeping in, taking two hour naps in the middle of the day and leisurely going about without worry. This kind of slowness, as necessary as it is at times, lacks the purpose and focus of the rest winter embodies. The “rest” of winter is a kind of work. The earth depends on those brutally cold days to destroy the harmful pests, mold, mildew and diseases that have grown alongside the beauty, as well as, to prepare itself to germinate properly for the spring. I too must, shift my posture from one upright and on my feet to one, sitting, scheming, typing and building stamina for the months of events ahead.
Ask any professional athlete and they will tell you that rest is an essential part of their training. It is part of the “work,” they must put in to perform at optimum levels. After running my first marathon in November, I assumed I could jump right back into my routine of running after taking a week to recover. The first few days post marathon were excruciating, not only because I was in pain but because I wanted to run but could not. To non-runners this might sound crazy but consider a time when you’ve entered a rhythm that peaks and then abruptly ends. There is a certain grieving on the way down the mountain. Mothers experience this the weeks following the birth of a child, olympians the days/ weeks after their competitions, every 9-5er on the last day of the weekend and the plants after the dahlias have given their last hoorah.
Exactly one week after my marathon, I woke up and went on a 6 mile outing, running through knee pain that I assumed was residual from the marathon. Now, four months later after a series of visits to my physical therapist, I am finally able to run for 30 minutes at a time (a little less than 2 miles). Rest cannot be rushed. Rather than running, I am resistance training. Rather than growing blooms, the earth is soaking up the nutrients to perform its best for the months ahead.
March is the month when I find myself most impatient with winter. It is hard for me to put up with the cold as I watch the daffodils and tulips begin to spring up from the ground. As we reach its end, I feel not just ready for wedding season to start but filled with joy and excitement. My time spent inside among sickness and in front of my computer screen are moments that considered in isolation are rather drab and monotonous. However, when compared against the whole, these winter tasks are germinating the seeds of the year’s blooming.