Weathering the seasons.
The cold has set in here and the temperature is dropping. The inside is starting to feel as cold as the outside, so I know Winter is here. The days have become shorter and the sun is starting to hide more often now. So begins the art of weathering the seasons. Of leaning into rather than running away. Learning into the learning, the ache and creak of winter. Before the unearthing of spring. The breaking through of frozen soil and the toil of pushing through. It is about embracing the rest, the quiet and the safe retreat.
I have found that a lot of people are not fans of winter. But I love her. They don’t like the cold and the wind chill—the cold toes and nose. The lack of green means there is somehow a lack of life. But there is just something about winter that makes me feel better. I love the cold. I love the quietness that winter brings. You don’t see the changes as much in the city, the buildings and architecture are not a good litmus test for the season. Sydney does not snow either, so there seems to be no visible change to the weather beyond the sudden temperature drops. But a collective hush seems to take over people in the winter. A Settling, a kind of silence. Everything and everyone somehow drops down to a murmur. They turn inwards. there is something about it that makes me feel so much more creative. I write better in the winter compared to any other season. Maybe because the social calendar is not as full. But I don’t think that’s it.
Winter just does something to my soul. Wakes her up. Sleepy as she is, she is present and aware. Though she slow blinks herself through the months she catches everything. Every little detail. Every small miracle and it fuels her. She writes. Though not with the fanaticism of summer. It’s languid. Fountain pen and paper. ink smudges and spilled coffee and paragraphs and paragraphs of words spilled out onto the page. Winter slows her down enough that she can listen, that I can listen. Pay attention. Look for the story.
There is something about winter. Retreating to a cafe, book and pen in hand. Shiraz by the fireplace of a pub. Warm coats and layers upon layers of clothing. There is something kind of sensual about it. The undressing during winter. The peeling back of people as they settle in around you. Watching people shake off the day for a cup of coffee and a slice of banana bread. The rhythms of people around you. Forgetting their coats stick out that much and knocking over books or trinkets in a store. The sounds of boots on the pavement. People walk so much closer together in winter, trying to share heat and stay close. There is a lot of tenderness in winter I’ve found. The early dusk lighting. The romance of candles on a table. Hot chocolates and gloved hands. I think she is beautiful, winter. We could learn a thing or two from who she calls us to be during her season.
