Winter (verb)

lizshine74by lizshine74

In On writing.

snowy mountains

To Winter. A verb, as in to slow down after a period of productivity, to rest and recover energy before the next spring. Nature provides us with a cycle, but we use our technology to live in the perpetual productivity of summer. Or we try to. I’ve been thinking a lot about this, and judging from my information feeds, so have many others. It surprised me just now to look and find that Katherine May’s book is not on the NY Time Bestseller list since it keeps popping up for me everywhere. I suppose it’s still a niche book, not mainstream.

I read it last winter when I really began to contemplate wintering as a verb. It’s a beautiful contemplation of the idea and the sense it makes to winter.

Yesterday, I spent six hours at my yoga studio participating in a workshop called “Wintering Well”. The pattern of the workshop went something like this: slow flow, yin with reiki, a talk on aryurvedic practice with soup and a warm almond drink, yoga story time with some massage ball action, yoga nidra meditation. I left feeling restored and a little bold. We had written down something we wanted to cultivate more of and something we wanted to let go. I will share what I wrote on my paper a little further down this post. We placed our papers in a cauldron on our way out the door. One of the hosts asked, “Do you want to burn shit?” I replied something flippant indicating that I always want to burn shit and we both laughed.

That I have access to and can afford the cost of such a retreat is a privilege for which I am grateful.

The wisdom and insight I took from this retreat didn’t come through a wisdom talk or a handout; it didn’t come directly at all. It came from making space in my always busy Sunday to stop being productive and just be in my body. As I mentioned, I’d already been thinking about this idea of wintering as a verb and what it means to me. Yesterday I went to a yoga flow class earlier in the day where the teacher urged us to “slow down” and said “this is a busy time of year”. I smarted at the comment, let a bit of my resentment about being a woman and a nurturer and the lifetime of expectations in this time of year to make food for potlucks, make craft projects for gifts, make everyone in a diverse family happy, and so on goes the holiday season. Also, the paradox that I do enjoy some of these things. As I followed our wise and talented retreat leaders through these hours of pause, some nuggets of insight dropped in.

Winter should be in our pockets all year round. In this season, nature encourages us to practice a skill that can serve us whenever we need it. Also, there are cycles within cycles, and I am closer to the winter of my life than I am to the spring. My body has lately been quite literally telling me to slow down. It’s not comfortable to run the same distances I used to. No amount of alcohol saves me from a hangover. I can’t skimp on sleep as easily as I once did.

And I still love to move.

On the burn papers I wrote that I wanted to let go the need for validation of my creative work from others. I wrote that I wanted to cultivate more joy in the ritual. Because I am a writer who hope to publish, there is an inherent paradox in these desires, and the beauty of the paradox is the surprising truth.

Winter in when we find contentment in home. The home that is our literal house, shielding us from the elements while we read through the dark evenings. Also, the home that is our creative work. The sacredness of the ritual.

On weekdays, I wake in the dark all year. Even in summer the light is not out at four in the morning. I let the dogs out, put the water on to boil. I let the dogs in and put down their food bowls. While waiting for the water to boil, I grind the coffee and stretch. Star to goddess. Squat to stand. Whatever my body is feeling the need to stretch and move.

Round 1 of writing happens while the dogs eat and I am savoring my first cup of coffee. Thirty to forty minutes. Close out email without looking if you left it open the day before. Phone is still silent and plugged in downstairs. Remind yourself what you intended to get up to today and go to work. Whatever thought arises that would question the sacredness of this routine or pull you toward something else, acknowledge it, and return to the trusted path you’ve set for yourself.

Take a break and walk the dogs. Try to really take a break. Your mind will want to keep writing, trying out this phrase and that. Try to notice if the moon or the stars are visible in the sky. What does the air smell like? Breathe. Be patient with the older dog who moves slow these days and loves to sniff everything. Appreciate her.

When you return and the dogs have been toweled off, go back to your desk with an eager heart and pick up where you left off. Try to stay in the moment of the moment. Let thoughts about practical matters rise and float off. You can attend to them later.

Home is the creative work.

I’ve been learning to slow down in my writing, and I am amazed at the result. The work is better; I am more satisfied with the work.

Perhaps it helps to think about wintering as a verb in a more symbolic rather than literal way. If we can wrap ourselves around what it means to winter, maybe we can wrap ourselves around what it means to listen to our own bodies, to ritual all year round.

I’ve managed this year to carve out some time to stay home and create right before Christmas with family. I got my shopping done early this year; I slowed down in other ways too. I’ve got a little chunk of time that I don’t want to spend tidying the house or getting in a few more craft projects.

If you are able to join me for a creative retreat Sunday 12/22 into the morning of 12/24, I will be posting some guidance here beginning on the evening of the Solstice (12/21). The themes of each day will be: concentration, delight, and compassionate self-reflection. Our aim will be to get three to six hours of focused creative time in each of those days. You can follow along with me or do your own retreat when a window of time opens for you.

I also work as a writing coach and love helping writers gain confidence, set goals, and develop their work. For more information on coaching, email me at eatyourwords.lizshine@gmail.com.

lizshine74

lizshine74

Liz Shine teaches high school English, writes, edits, and coaches other writers from her home in Olympia, WA. When she begins to feel overwhelmed by it all, she simply looks up at Mount Rainier in the distance and gets back to work. If that fails, she heads to the ocean. She is a founding editor at Red Dress Press. Her Substack Make Time is her gift to writers, like her, trying to magic time in this crazy, busy world. All of those posts are cross-posted on the blog here. You can see more of her writing at lizshine.com and find her on Instagram {@lizshine.writer} cooking, traveling, and in other ways seeking moments of awe. She has been an active participant in communities of writers since the early 1990s. She’s learned that two things feel truly purpose-driven in life: writing and coaching other writers. In the in between (because one cannot be driving for a purpose every moment), she enjoys looking for wonder and connection. She is a lifelong yoga student, an enthusiastic walker along streets and trails, and an amateur gardener and vegetarian cook. She lives in Olympia, WA. She believes in the power of practice and has been practicing writing since some time in the early 90s when she became an adult in the rain-soaked city of Aberdeen. Writing began with journaling, as a way to understand a confusing, sometimes violent coming-of-age. She writes mostly fiction, some nonfiction, and poetry, and holds an MFA from Pacific Lutheran University’s Rainier Writers Workshop. She is a founding editor at Red Dress Press.