Some Things You Can Only See in Winter
or — sunrises are nice when the trees have lost their leaves
Today is Imbolc1, which is one of the four Gaelic seasonal festivals. Imbolc marks the beginning of spring and is the halfway point(ish) between the winter solstice and the spring equinox. I typically celebrate the spring equinox as the first day of spring, but I am all for bumping it up six or seven weeks.
I love Spring! I love green leaves, wildflowers, and days stretching longer and longer and growing warmer and warmer until I finally find myself carrying trays of food to the picnic table and gathering for supper outside. I do not love winter. I love the consistency of the warmth in the summer. I love the coziness of fall, the breezes, the change. But winter is long and cold and dark. Spring is what I love. I fully recognize that the contrast from winter to spring is part of what makes it so special. I also recognize that I live in central Texas, and it’s been in the 70s the last several afternoons — still, I would happily jump from January to March each year.
Last year, I attended a retreat in early January led by my spiritual director. At the retreat, she said something that I’m still thinking about a year later: The dormancy of winter allows us to see things we can’t see when everything is green. Or, as I’ve made into a mantra these last two winters, some things you can only see in winter.
Katherine May, in her book Wintering2, writes this: Plants and animals don’t fight the winter; they don’t pretend it’s not happening and attempt to carry on living the same lives that they lived in the summer. They prepare. They adapt. They perform extraordinary acts of metamorphosis to get them through. May goes on to say for plants and animals, winter is part of the job. The same is true for humans.
I started jotting down notes for this essay last weekend. Sitting on my back porch, I typed long paragraphs about the ails of winter while my family attempted to build a fire. The branches were wet from a week of rain, and the wind kept blowing smoke into their faces, but they continued on, enjoying the cold weather. From my spot on the porch, I was imagining spring. I pictured our yard — green slowly climbing over the fence, leaves returning to a large tree at the back, and birds chirping at my feeder. I dreamed of kids rolling around in the new grass, the sun lingering later than 6 pm, and our neighbor’s bluebonnets surprising us as they spread.
As I watched my family, I was reminded there are gifts now, too. When the leaves are gone, I can see the sunrise through the trees in the morning, and if you’re in the kitchen early and slow down just enough between packing lunches and filling bowls of oatmeal, you’ll catch it. On the rare morning that I’m in the kitchen before everyone else, the yellows and oranges from the sunrise invite me to breathe a little deeper and to view the day ahead with gentler eyes.
When I say some things you can only see in winter — I’m not only talking about the days that stretch from late December until early March. I mean the days, months, and years when everything is taken away from us, and we’re left bare. When we no longer know who we are or what our next step should be. I mean the days when what we thought we knew to be true no longer holds up. The days you rethink where you’ve been or where you are going.
Katherine May’s book isn’t just about the physical season of winter either but about the seasons in our lives when we winter. Seasons of grief. Of loss. Of change. She writes: Wintering brings about some of the most profound and insightful moments of our human experience, and wisdom resides in those who have wintered.
I’m trying to lean into winter in all her forms this year. I’m asking myself questions. I’m looking to learn, to grow, to see the gifts. I’m staying curious about the direction I’m going and staying open to a new kind of clarity. I’m asking myself what is revealing itself while the leaves are gone and who do I want to be when they return?
I want to leave you with some words from the poem The Sacrament of Waiting3 by Macrina Wiederkehr. It has been a companion in these days when there are always more leaves to shed and there isn’t quite as much light as I’d like.
Shedding her last leaf
she watched its journey to the ground.
She stood in silence
wearing the color of emptiness,
her branches wondering;
How do you give shade with so much gone?
And then,
the sacrament of waiting began.
The sunrise and sunset watched with tenderness.
Clothing her with silhouettes
they kept her hope alive.
I hope you’ll catch the sun through the trees this week. You might have to go looking for it, but it will be worth it.
alongside you,
h
Links & Spiritual Direction News
Mark your calendar for my next mini-retreat: Preparing for Lent & Easter on Tuesday, February 13th from 11:30 am - 1 pm CT. If you are interested in joining, reply to this email or send me a note at hollyporterphillips@gmail.com. Similar to my advent retreat4, this will be a spacious time to prayerfully consider how you would like to enter the seasons of Lent and Easter. This retreat will be donation-based as well.
I currently have space available for new directees. If spiritual direction is something that you or someone you know might be interested in, please reach out — I can be contacted at hollyporterphillips@gmail.com. I’ve written here a little about what spiritual direction is, if you’d like to know more!
My friend, Jamie Bonilla, is offering Water in the Wilderness: A Creative Lenten Journey starting in a few weeks, and I’m hoping to join in!
Anam Cara is offering it’s Retreat in Daily Life again this year, February 18-24th. You can learn more about it and sign up here.
I’ll be mentioning more Lent & Easter resources in the coming weeks, but I’m going to reading Sacred Belongings: A 40-day Devotional on the Liberating Heart of Scripture by Kat Armas with my church community this year, you might enjoy it too.
The Sacrament of Waiting by Macrina Wiederkehr
G.S., An attendee, wrote this to me after the Advent Mini-Retreat last November: Thank you so much for your Advent mini-Retreat last week and for sharing your written version of what you so gently offered up to us women that evening. It came at a moment of needed grace and space, to be able to be quietly present and yet also able to turn off that vulnerable feeling screen while you led us through reflection of our lives, naming what is real within them, and creating intention for within this year’s Advent.