Winter's Nurturing

There’s something about the first signs of winter that hits me differently. The air shifts, the light dulls, and I feel the familiar ache that dreary weather brings. I've always dreaded it - the slow slide into shorter days and longer nights. The sky turns gray, and the air feels heavier somehow, as though even the world is tired. Ever since Jon died, winter has carried a deeper stillness, one that mirrors the quiet inside me.

On Sunday, as I brought my plants in for wintering - wiping their leaves, trimming the ends, and finding the right spot for each one - I realized how much they mirror me. They need light, warmth, water, and care to make it through. So do I. Though they may look dormant, inside they are very much alive, storing energy, resting before the renewal that spring will bring.

Maybe that’s what I’ve been missing all these years - the understanding that winter isn’t only about surviving. It’s about nurturing. It's about allowing myself rest without guilt, tending to what I already have rather than pushing for what’s next. I’ve discovered that I can make winter beautiful in my own way. I can write. I can cook. I can light candles or build a fire in the early evening, or let the scent of simmering soup fill the house. There’s something healing in these simple acts - chopping vegetables, stirring the pot, tasting for salt. I can take pen to paper, bringing dreams to life. Each small gesture becomes a quiet prayer: I am still here. I am still tending to life.

Instead of fighting it, maybe this year I’ll lean into it. I’ll let it teach me how to be still, to listen, to soften. Winter isn’t here to drain me; it holds me - a long, slow exhale before something new begins to grow. God has shown me that even dormant seasons are sacred. They are not wasted; they are preparation. Just as the trees conserve strength and the soil gathers nutrients unseen, my own spirit is being restored in ways I cannot yet measure.

The light always returns. Not because I force it, but because that is how creation works. The quiet becomes comforting. The stillness becomes holy. Beneath every gray day, something in me is being renewed. Now, when the wind turns sharp and the sky lowers, I remind myself: this, too, is part of the healing and the gift of growing.

A quiet fear stirs as I imagine what my life might look like if I only do what nourishes my soul. What will fill my days? How will my work, my relationships, and my routines shift? And yet, even as the fear rises, I feel trust emerging alongside it; trust that choosing what feeds my spirit will guide me to clarity, purpose, and peace. I don’t need all the answers today. I only need to begin, one nourishing choice at a time, and watch how life unfolds when I honor the sacred.