Winter solstice has just passed and the northern earth is starting to stir, though freezing weather will undoubtedly return. The sun is starting to emerge just a tiny bit more each day from its deepest nadir. It’s very much the heart of winter and yet there are stirrings in the life world. On my regular path, the lime green shoots of cow parsley are already pushing up through the fallen leaves in mild weather, though they may be dashed by frosts to come. Hazel catkins, delicate pale yellow, sway in the breeze.

I love the turning point of the year that is the winter solstice. I celebrate the occasion more than I do the so-called New Year – because the solstice is a real world event, and not just a calendar concoction. Traditional cultures always marked this sacred moment with celebration and feasting at the death of the old year and rebirth of the new one. Seasonal decoration of evergreens like holly, ivy and hips and haws, acknowledge everlasting life and rebirth.

Deciduous trees stand bare and still in the woods, their branches and twigs silhouetted like intricate veins against the sky. Trees know winter is a time to withdraw and rejuvenate before emerging into bud. They know how to rest and it’s a good lesson for us as we tend to think we should power on all year regardless of seasons. 

We are part of the seasons and they affect us profoundly. I love the changing seasons – winter too –  there is no yin without yang – it’s a dynamic balance. We somehow strive to be independent of the cyclical flow in which we are held and have our being. Don’t we all experience the lucidity of mind on a bright crystalline winter morning when our thinking is expansive and bright? And in contrast there are days of leaden sunkenness, under the dome of low clouds, where we feel slow and down and struggle to think creatively. We are the seasons too.

The biting cold of an easterly wind on my cheeks as I go out walking helps attune to winter’s season. Bringing our overly internalised attention back to our direct sensory experience helps align our bodily rhythms with the earth and a sense of belonging and sanity. In the breeze, the rustle and swoosh of a bed of fallen leaves, speaks to me of passing and that which must be left behind. 

There are so many signs of the season that our sensing body naturally attunes to and aligns with, if we allow ourselves to be simply present. We experience the chill and leafless bareness; low sunlight and short days; hawthorn and holly full of red berries, and ivy standing out now with its evergreen leaves, festooned with dark blue berries; winter wading birds and ducks, refugees  from arctic frozen lands like Greenland and Siberia, which dabble in the relative unfrozenness of mud on the river banks here. 

Horizons expand in the chill air of winter and the wildness of the land comes into its own. If we surrender to the season and drop any habitual conditioning that the cold and mud is unpleasant and always to be avoided, then winter is a wonderful time for long walks and hikes. Dressed up warmly in waterproof gear, I love winter hikes even more than summer ones. I never get too hot walking in winter, unlike in summer, and  I’m reminded of the famous quote by fell walker Alfred Wainwright, There’s no such thing as bad weather, only unsuitable clothing.

Then the squelching of mud and the crunch of frozen ground underfoot become sensuous experiences. I enjoy the vast vistas of  windswept saltmarsh estuaries, alone with the elements and the winter wading birds. Embracing the conditions deepens our sense of belonging to the land and being at home.

Winter Solitude

Winter solitude –
a world of one color
the sound of wind

Matsuo Basho (1644-1694)