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I always find it difficult to get up in the mornings during winter. The dark early morning sky and cold keep me burrowed in my layers of bedding, as I slowly work up the courage to slide one foot out of the bed, to place it firmly on the floor. I look at my clock and sigh because it’s later than I had intended to wake up. I had grand plans for rising early: to stretch, meditate, drink tea, and write; yet for another day, I overslept and felt guilty for not having the willpower to get up just for once at the time I set my alarm.
This was one of those days. A Sunday morning when I had the greatest intentions to get up early and have a slow, intentional morning — but my body had other plans. I’ve come downstairs, made my herbal tea, and sat down to write; but there’s still this niggling feeling of guilt and shame arising within me. As I write and reflect on this, I am called to listen…what is my body trying to tell me?
I’m reminded of the book, Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times, by Katherine May. May states, “We have seasons when we flourish and seasons when the leaves fall from us, revealing our bare bones. Given time, they grow again.” I truly feel as if I am in the seasons of the leaves falling from my branches. That’s not always the most comfortable place to be. It's a liminal space, a place that can feel like your roots are being upturned. It’s a quiet place, like a morning frost has fallen over you.
The season of winter can be challenging, with short days, perpetual darkness, and bone-chilling cold. This season is also commonly known as the ‘slow season’. The winter months beckon us into a time of hibernation, to turn inward and rebuild our inner reserves in time for when the light emerges again.
Slow seasons are not valued in the same way as our productive seasons. Our productivity by today’s standards is a measure of a life well-lived — a season of creative expression and output. But what if our slow seasons were also a time of being in flow? Equally, the winter period is a time of nurturing and sitting in the stillness, to allow whatever is moving through to arise to the surface. I imagine a slow season as being a time of creating space — imagine taking a deep inhale into your abdomen and the space that creates, filling pockets that have remained stagnant and unloved.
I look to nature as a reflection of my inner world. The trees have lost their leaves, they are barren bones that sway in the wind. Yet, at first sign, they may seem lacking in life, but up close, we can see an ecosystem very much alive, waiting, and restoring. Moss of a vibrant evergreen covers the bark; leaves merge and become one of the woodland floors, becoming humus, a new form of life. During this time, ecosystems are not living and surviving independently, rather they are working together, as a collective system to support one another’s thriving. As I wrote in my last article, Ecological Ancestors:
This interrelationship which has been proven through scientific study, and specifically through the work of Suzanne Simard, a Canadian forest ecologist, highlights the ‘co-operative systems’ in which trees exist. Not simply an individual, but a ‘collaborative intelligence’ where the thriving of the collective is valued over the success of one individual. The way our ancestors saw trees as life-givers, as sacred, was not wrong.
I’m invited to lean into community during this time of slowness. To ask for help when it’s needed, and also to offer my support to others. The slow season can feel challenging, but I think it’s there for a reason. In the winter, we can finally tend to ourselves, like a garden that has become wild and overgrown. In the quiet, we can finally rest and listen to the inner guidance system that often becomes quiet during the summer period. Let this slow season be one that you take the time for. Let it be a pause, an inhalation, a sigh.
As a slow-season gift, you can receive 20% off a subscription to By Hannah. Let this be a gift to yourself or another during this season of rest and reflection.
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