In the spring and summer months, the natural world is kaleidoscopic with colours and shapes provided by the panoply of flowers in bloom. Yet some flowers don’t add to the palette until late summer or autumn, when the garden scene is slightly more restrained. One example is the Japanese toad (or orchid) lily, with white and purple-spotted petals forming a starburst-shaped flower. Its late-blooming feels like a cheery surprise, a latecomer to a party bringing a gift better than you could have expected. No one would say that it should have bloomed earlier—its timing feels welcome and perfect. Why don’t we extend this same grace to ourselves?
In January we contend with New Year’s resolutions, which can reflect ideals of where we think we should be or should be aiming for in the near future, perhaps in keeping with societal norms. Maybe your resolutions are goals you have been ruminating over for months or have been making attempts towards for years. Your inner critic may be running riot, suggesting that you just need more discipline, more commitment, more “get-up-and-go”. You wonder when you feel you will live up to your potential, when you will bloom.
Nature has other ideas: venture outside and you will be greeted with a canvas of mellow, earthy shades, and a muted soundscape that perhaps has birdsong but no buzzing of bees or insects. Insects, who spend the more clement months hustling and bustling, are now hunkering down, hiding under leaf litter or under stones or in trees. When the warmer weather arrives they will be miniature paragons of industry once again; they know instinctively that this is their time to shine—not a moment sooner.
It can be hard to cultivate patience in a society reliant on instant gratification. Social media promises “life hacks” and quick fixes, and taunts us with people who have managed to overhaul their lives in a mere six months. If you feel that the quiet winter of your life has lasted for years, if you have tried to force yourself to “bloom” only to be met with false start after false start, be patient and take heart. Fields need fallow periods to restore nutrients to the soil. We too need fallow periods to rest, but also to observe and reflect, and collect what can be used for later. In a world that favours constant output, surely we also need input? This is the wonder of wintering.
During periods of wintering, embrace the stillness and silence. If inspiration does strike, or you do feel a burst of energy, don’t force yourself to wring every last drop out of it for fear of losing it altogether. Have faith that what is meant to stay will stay, and what is meant to go will go. Let the seeds of inspiration take time to mature underground in the nourishing winter soil, and extend this same courtesy to yourself. At the perfect time, spring will return, and you will look back on this winter with fondness, not just for its tranquillity, but for its necessity in helping you bloom.
In January we contend with New Year’s resolutions, which can reflect ideals of where we think we should be or should be aiming for in the near future, perhaps in keeping with societal norms. Maybe your resolutions are goals you have been ruminating over for months or have been making attempts towards for years. Your inner critic may be running riot, suggesting that you just need more discipline, more commitment, more “get-up-and-go”. You wonder when you feel you will live up to your potential, when you will bloom.
Nature has other ideas: venture outside and you will be greeted with a canvas of mellow, earthy shades, and a muted soundscape that perhaps has birdsong but no buzzing of bees or insects. Insects, who spend the more clement months hustling and bustling, are now hunkering down, hiding under leaf litter or under stones or in trees. When the warmer weather arrives they will be miniature paragons of industry once again; they know instinctively that this is their time to shine—not a moment sooner.
It can be hard to cultivate patience in a society reliant on instant gratification. Social media promises “life hacks” and quick fixes, and taunts us with people who have managed to overhaul their lives in a mere six months. If you feel that the quiet winter of your life has lasted for years, if you have tried to force yourself to “bloom” only to be met with false start after false start, be patient and take heart. Fields need fallow periods to restore nutrients to the soil. We too need fallow periods to rest, but also to observe and reflect, and collect what can be used for later. In a world that favours constant output, surely we also need input? This is the wonder of wintering.
During periods of wintering, embrace the stillness and silence. If inspiration does strike, or you do feel a burst of energy, don’t force yourself to wring every last drop out of it for fear of losing it altogether. Have faith that what is meant to stay will stay, and what is meant to go will go. Let the seeds of inspiration take time to mature underground in the nourishing winter soil, and extend this same courtesy to yourself. At the perfect time, spring will return, and you will look back on this winter with fondness, not just for its tranquillity, but for its necessity in helping you bloom.