I just finished reading the book, Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times, and I recommend it, especially for anyone who is struggling at the moment. Well, that’s likely at least half the adults in the U.S. right now, but I digress. I liked it, primarily because it gave me language to describe my experience for much of the last 6 years.
“Wintering is,” according to author Katherine May, “a season in the cold. It is a fallow period in life when you’re cut off from the world, feeling rejected, sidelined, blocked from progress, or cast into the role of an outsider.”
Later, she comments, that despite the challenges or arguably because of them, “Wintering brings about some of the most profound and insightful moments of our human experience, and wisdom resides in those who have wintered.”
May writes beautifully and is very relatable. There were several parallels between the experiences she describes and mine, with regard to health, career, parenting and more. I felt like we could be friends, even if I have never done polar bear plunges. I’m glad I read it and think it could be particularly helpful for anyone who finds themselves experiencing a winter in life.
While I can relate to the book on many levels, career and health are especially salient for me. After a 20-plus-year career, I took a professional sabbatical at the end of 2023. I willingly left a job that paid fairly well but left me unfulfilled and deeply frustrated. (I have people in my life who I suspect think I was fired and that I just say it was a sabbatical to save face. No, I gave ample notice and actually left the role on good terms; my colleagues threw me a lovely good-bye party.) My husband and I had decided together I would take a year off to explore projects meaningful to me. It was the first time that doing so was financially possible for us, and it was well worth it for my happiness and mental health.
Like so many things in life, it didn’t go exactly according to plan. I had torn my Achilles tendon in my left leg in the early fall of 2022. It healed very slowly, but it had almost healed. I was just to the point where I could consider working out. Then, three weeks into my sabbatical, it split again. So, instead of focusing on creating my second act, much of my sabbatical was spent laid up, healing and doing a lot of physical therapy.
I was effectively handicapped for two years. Walking is one of those things I took for granted–you should simply be able to do it–and it certainly pulled me up short when suddenly I can’t do it. I withdrew. A lot of things I couldn’t physically do, and there were times, especially when I was wearing a huge knee-to-toe boot that looked like it belonged on a Transformer instead of a person, when I didn’t want to participate. That boot took out ankles and furniture, and my gait was gimpy like that of a zombie or perhaps Quasimodo. I couldn’t sit comfortably in theater seats, for example, and going out to a nice restaurant or anywhere with tight quarters was virtually impossible. I made a spectacle. Even out of the boot, I could not walk any real distance. I was hampered and frustrated. I know very well what it is to winter because of a health event.
In one chapter, she writes about ritual, which resonated deeply for me. I’m big on rituals and observances, both big and small. I recently read somewhere that we don’t remember our days, we remember our moments, something that really struck me. Remembering is so important. Yes, I do believe in living in the moment, but I think remembering the good times is necessary, too. By observing holidays of all sorts, we make moments, and we make memories. I want my daughter to have a beautiful childhood, and by creating wonderful shared experiences, we’re also making happy memories.
I decorate for holidays of all kinds. Christmas is the biggest one in my house, followed by Halloween, but I also decorate for events like Lunar New Year and Memorial Day. We have different traditions for these holidays; again, they may be bigger or smaller, depending on the observance. Oftentimes, the traditions revolve around food, but not necessarily. We also borrow from traditions we’re interested in exploring. One year, my daughter was curious about Hannukah, so we learned about the holiday and lit a menorah for the eight days in observance. On the first day of Lunar New Year, for example, I give her a red envelope with a little bit of money in it to mark the occasion, and we learn about other customs associated with the event.
May writes about observing the solstice. Marking the winter solstice is something my family has done for years. In our area, on the night of the solstice, there usually is an illumination event or two held outside in a park or forest preserve where an abundance of luminaries or some other light source lines the path. In the dark on the longest night of the year, we welcome the return of the light, as from then until the summer solstice, the days lengthen and the nights grow shorter. There’s something to be said of acknowledging the start of winter, in a communal event outside in the cold, where we collectively recognize the moment and embrace the coming days, knowing light and warmth will return.
If for no other reason, I’m glad to have read the book to have that feeling of solidarity, to know that others have had similar experiences or low points they’ve navigated and survived and lived to tell the tale.
As May alludes, spring follows winter. In other words, there’s always light at the end of the proverbial tunnel, however small the pinprick of light or however long the tunnel may be.