Wintering

It’s been an especially winter’y Winter here in Rochester, NY…A lot of snow and bitter cold. I’m doing my usual battle against Seasonal Depression high doses of vitamin D, light lamp, trying to get outside for fresh air and natural light, as I do every year.

In the last year, I’ve become interested in how our hunter-gatherer and pagan ancestors did this winter thing. They were prepared to hunker down and survive and fire had cultural significance. Gathered around hearths that afforded them warmth, light, and comfort, early humans could venture into climates that otherwise would have been too cold to withstand. This year, I’m also allowing more quiet and cozy by the fire. Reading and sleeping more. Catching up on shows and movies.

And not apologizing or beating myself up about it either, dammit!

I also read a really great book, Wintering, The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times by Katherine May. Ms. May shares her own year-long journey through a personal (and seasonal) winter, beginning when a sudden illness in her family plunged her into a time of uncertainty and seclusion. When her life felt at is most frozen, she managed to find strength and inspiration from wintering experiences of others and the transformations nature makes to survive the cold. It’s possible to intentionally and mindfully draw from the healing powers of the natural world and to embrace the winters of our own lives. Friends, pay attention to the the (slightly) longer days and try to enjoy the beauty of winter. I’m doing my best, too.

But wait, there’s more!!

Below is from my friend, Morgan, about February in Rochester. You can follow her substack writings HERE

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“February in Rochester has always carried a particular weight. The snow is no longer new or charming; it’s been stepped on, salted, and compacted into something gray and stubborn. The trees stand bare, not dramatic anymore, just tired. The temperatures hover in that indecisive space where winter refuses to loosen its grip, even though everyone is asking it to.

I know its not February yet, but right now feels familiar in that way-like a mirror.

There’s a sense, both in the air and in the broader national mood, of being paused mid-breath. We’ve endured stretches of intensity, noise, and motion, and now we’re in that awkward in-between: not actively collapsing, not yet renewing. People go about their routines, scrape their windshields, meet their obligations—but there’s an undercurrent of fatigue, a shared longing for clarity or thaw.

In Rochester, February teaches patience the hard way. You learn to live with limited daylight, to find beauty in small, stubborn things—the crunch of snow under boots, the sudden brightness of sun on ice, the comfort of warmth indoors. You don’t mistake these moments for spring; you just take them for what they are and keep going.

The country, too, feels like it’s in a long February. The big questions haven’t been answered. Old structures are showing wear. Everyone senses change is coming, but no one agrees on what it will look like or how long it will take. There’s tension in that uncertainty, but also the quiet truth that seasons move whether we will them to or not.

February isn’t hopeful in a loud way. It doesn’t promise. It simply endures. And maybe that’s the lesson of this time of life: resilience without spectacle, survival without certainty, the discipline of staying upright and decent while waiting for something warmer.

In Rochester, you know spring will come—not because February tells you so, but because it always has. That knowledge doesn’t erase the cold, but it makes it bearable. Perhaps that’s where we are now, collectively: living through the gray, trusting history, and stepping carefully forward, one salted sidewalk at a time.

When I googled “Tori Amos Winter” to ensure I got the lyrics right to this song I was sent to YouTube where a disturbing little pop up asked me if I wanted to see more “vintage” clips of music videos. Ugh. How very February.”