Embracing Winter

One of the many lakes at Lebanon Hills Regional Park

When I turned 18, I got the hell out of Minnesota. There were things I was running to, and things I was running from. One of the things I was running from was winter.

I hated being cold. My parent’s cars took precedence in their two-car garage, so each morning before high school I’d go outside early to start the engine of my Ford Escape and let it warm up while I brushed snow and scraped ice off the windshield. I’d blast up the defrosters before going back inside, cursing my pain-pricked fingertips and runny nose.

I hated the darkness, the cold crust that forms over the streets in January, a mix of salt and frosty cold. I hated bundling up, I hated unbundling, I hated it all. So I moved down south.

After I graduated from college, I moved back to Minnesota, and have lived there since. Something that has surprised me about this return is a growing adoration for winter.

When I lived in Tennessee, I soaked up the warm and flowery spring season, but I cursed the hot and boring autumn. I despised walking to class in the 35 degree rain. Winter with rain? The only thing worse than being cold and dry is being cold and wet.

It’s been a slow appreciation since I’ve returned, but as I get older, I notice myself welcoming the change in the air. I’ve learned I dislike extreme temperatures, and being too hot is as despicable to me as being too cold. But feeling a chill cut through you has its benefits–a sort of awakening, if you let it. A sharpness that brings with it a clarity.

One of my favorite parts of the shift from spring to summer is the humming and buzzing as the air comes alive. One day, it’s silent, and the next, you notice a thickness, a vibration, a vitality that wasn’t there before. It’s exciting–and so is the reverse, noticing the silence and hollowness as the creatures of the earth burrow away from the oncoming cold.

The emptiness of the air doesn’t necessarily feel like something is missing. Rather, it feels like a pause, a sacred space that is asking to be cherished with reverence. I take walks in November and relish the stripping away–of colors, of sounds, of life’s intensity when everything is active all at once.

Most people I know hate winter. It’s our god-given right as Minnesotans to complain about winter. The most common complaint I hear: “I’d enjoy it more if I didn’t have to drive in it.” The first few snowfalls are notorious for being rife with car crashes; we wonder how people forget how to drive in snow and ice every year, ignoring the fact that we are all part of the traffic rushing along as if winter requires no changes to our state of mind.

Minnesotans love to pretend that winter doesn’t affect them. They love to make it about toughness, acting as if twenty-degree temps don’t bother them. I never believe them, even those who run hot. I always find myself shaking my head at people in gym shorts, hoodies, unzipped thin jackets, nothing protecting their ears or hands.

When I lived in New York City my last semester of college, I was delighted in the winter accoutrements I saw all around me. In the fashion capital of the United States, I was surrounded by people wearing puffy winter coats, ear muffs and knit hats, gloves and mittens. Wearing snow boots on the subway and changing into regular shoes at the office. Even the dogs were better dressed for the weather than most Minnesotans. I felt satisfied in my suspicion that Minnesotans have an attitude problem with winter.

Our Scandinavian ancestors knew how to prepare for the cold; not only that, they embraced it. In her book Wintering, author Katherine May shares a cultural learning moment from her Finnish friend: Talvitelat is the Finnish word describing the preparation–the stowing away–for winter. It begins in August, putting away summer clothes and pulling out the winter ones that have been stashed away, creating an excitement akin to pulling out Christmas decorations, welcoming in the season. House repairs are made, firewood is chopped and stacked. “You buy winter tires for your car. You bake so that the freezer is full…And of course you go out foraging,” says May’s friend Hanne.

We might not need to start as soon as August, but I can’t help but feel that as September rolls around, in that Indian summer, it would benefit us to begin similar preparations. This would, of course, involve admitting that winter is not a thing to be endured or ignored; that we do need to dress differently, drive differently, live differently. And in a state where winter stretches on longer than most of us would prefer, admitting that we need to live differently feels unreasonable. But in a state where winter stretches on longer than most of us would prefer, I can’t help but believe it’s desperately necessary.

A week ago, I went out for errands on a biting ten-degree morning. I dawned the ankle-length quilted coat I invested in a few years ago, a coat that feels more like a sleeping bag with arms. I slid my wool-socked feet into my new winter boots, fur-lined and treaded on the bottom, but still stylish enough for everyday life. I tugged a knit ski cap over my ears, wrapped a scarf around my neck, and pulled on the alpaca fur mittens I invested in this autumn. As I made my way down the blustery sidewalk, a family walked in front of me in clothing that, quite honestly, appalled me. One parent was wearing a thin quilted coat, the other in nothing more than a hoodie, baseball cap, and converse shoes. They were holding the bare hands of a little girl between them, no more than four or five years old. She had on a thin winter coat and no hat or mittens.

I know I run cold, and not everyone does, but there is no reason anyone should be without a jacket, hat, or gloves in ten degrees. A toddler, with their tiny fingers and ears exposed to the elements? It’s unfathomable to me, whose ears feel at risk for frostbite in ten minutes in such cold.

Am I crazy? I wonder. But I do not think I am; I think Minnesotans feel like they are losing some ridiculous imaginary battle if they succumb to the weather and put on a heavy winter coat. Minnesotans love to pretend they know better than Mother Nature; they are always complaining about it being too hot, too cold, too rainy, too snowy, too humid, too dry, too sunny, too cloudy. I want to shout at everybody to shut up and see if they’d like to do better than Mother Nature herself.

Of course, I’m not totally innocent of these complaints, but I am mindful. I try to catch myself in the act. The more I practice acceptance, the more I learn to lean into the weather as the personality of a living earth, the way I am sunny, rainy, icy, cloudy depending on the day. I love talking about the weather, but not in the small talk way that most people think; I like checking in on how the earth is doing, to see where we are at seasonally. If we try to put our hatless heads down and complain our way through winter, I think we are missing out on a handful of very necessary benefits the winter brings, least of which is a connection to the earth that, due to increased sheltering inside, is very necessary.

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Winter isn’t just ice and cold, grey and white–though I think there are plus sides to these aspects, like ice skating and that sharp awakeness you can’t help but feel when you step outside.

There’s a distinct color palette to winter, too, but the immediately obvious greys and whites provide a bit of a blank slate, a calm that the intense rainbows of summer and autumn do not provide. It is incorrect to think of winter as a colorless season, though; looking out my window right now, I see burnt oranges, tans, muted golds, straw yellows, grey-greens, chalky browns.

When I walk around a lake, I see an array of muted blues, yellows, and browns, punctuated by the deep reds of rosehips and the bark of a bush I do not know the name of. Sometimes the sunset provides intense pinks or soft lavenders that reflect off of the slate grey of the lake. An empty, colorless season? I think not. But Americans love what is obvious, and it takes a skilled, patient eye to look for the nuances of the muted palette of winter. One of these days, I swear I will take my watercolors and try to replicate what I see.

The earth is not totally empty, either. In the city, squirrels and rabbits run around in their thick fur coats and fattened round bodies. I’m amazed at the ways nature works to keep every living thing in a dynamic relationship, bodies that change to accommodate the seasons. In the branches of skeleton trees and huddled together in the warmth of our hedges, birds sing a song that rings through the still, crisp air. In the countryside where I grew up, deer and foxes flit through the open fields. Even the trees are not dead; they have simply removed their leaves to reroute energy to the trunk and roots, preparing them for the cold.

The more I lean into winter, the more I realize I want to be like the squirrels and the trees, changing to embrace the season. After all, the tree grows stronger in the winter, gathering its energy for a new growing cycle in the spring. I want to admit that I need this season; I want to admit that I am tired, and spent, and need a period of time to reflect and rest.

Americans love to think of progress as a straight, linear line. Of course, experts have proven this only leads to burnout, but we do not need experts to tell us that. We know it in our aching bones when we have crossed a line, depleting our resources. The earth works in cycles, and we are part of the earth (though we love to pretend we are not!); we are part of what Wendell Berry calls the “Great Economy,” the system in which everything on earth resides, a wheel that turns, and, though we may resist the direction it turns, we are part of the wheel and cannot control it nor fight it. We are not working in an economy separate from Nature, though we love to pretend we are. We are Nature, and everything we do is done under the rules of the Great Economy.

The earth works in cycles; we exist in a cyclical system. Women know this–the menstrual cycle has four phases, all of which line up with the four seasons, menstruation being equated to winter. I am learning in this realm, too, that my inner monthly winter is best observed by resting, not pushing through.

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So how do we embrace winter? For starters, we acknowledge it. We admit that November is a time of pruning back; that December is a time of darkness which we light up with holiday celebrations; that January is a time for deep rest and stillness, for dreaming and reflecting; that February is a time for beginning to prepare for spring.

I have started with allowing myself to sleep more; to nap when I need, to go to bed earlier, to do less on my to-do list and to schedule “no-plans” days on the calendar. This month, I’ve deleted my social media, in hopes to get reconnected with my inner voice, and to have more time to read books. I’ve been lighting candles and reading under a cozy blanket on the couch, next to the fireplace, sometimes with calm jazz music playing in the background. I’m being mindful in the kitchen, whether that’s intentionally adding in more vegetables or cooking a comforting soup. I’m making tea throughout the day; I’m putting on extra layers of thick socks and chunky sweaters. (Yes, textures seem to be a necessary anchor to ground myself in winter.)

Like our Scandinavian ancestors, my partner and I have begun to sauna regularly, purchasing a membership at a local establishment with saunas and cold plunges. I try to get a breath of fresh air every day, even if that’s bundling up for a five-minute walk around the block. My parents bought us snow shoes for Christmas, and we’re eagerly awaiting the day the snow is thick enough to put them to use.

It feels like it is an attitude adjustment; by embracing winter, telling myself I am fully wintering, I am behaving in ways that are inherently healing for my body. Instead of feeling trapped inside a bitter wasteland, I am embracing the Danish hygge lifestyle of books and candles and tea and rest as much as I am embracing the brief sunlit skies and crisp winter air in my lungs. In my peace and stillness, I’m finding I do not spend my time wishing for warmth to return, but grateful for the chance to slow down.

I don’t yet know what February brings, but I do know that I am savoring January in all its delicious stillness. I still find magic in the snowfalls, still enjoy a beer at a local dive on a snowy night. Still enjoy wrapping myself up in layers and reading on the couch, allowing myself to just be. Still grateful each night I lay my body down and drink in the long hours of darkness.

If enjoying winter means embracing it with the same fervor of Christmas excitement, I am here for it, perhaps more so, considering I get to make it what I want. By taking time to reflect on the past, present, and future, I move through the days with a little more certainty and clarity. By seeking warmth as much as I embrace cold, I learn to breathe a little easier, like finding my breath in those first few moments of cold shower after sauna. I panic a little at first, but after a few attempts, I begin to trust myself, to trust in my surroundings, and find my breath, realizing afterward the benefits I am reaping in this practice. I feel clear-headed, grounded, patient. In touch with myself and the sacred snowglobe world around me–the world I am inherently part of, a born member of the Great Economy.

I do not want to white-knuckle winter. No good ever comes of ignoring the truth of reality, nor does it come from avoiding darkness and mystery. I want the careful slowness that winter driving forces me into after months of summer rushing. I want the peaceful tranquility of reading on the couch next to the fireplace, my mind open to new ideas and dreams after the planting and watering and harvesting of the year. I want the chilly quiet air to awaken me after the muggy fever of summer activities. 

Perhaps most of all, I want to know myself in the still, quiet darkness, and I want to know the rest of the world in its still, quiet darkness too. I understand that not everyone is ready for that. But how healing it would be if we tried.