No resolutions, no goals, no intentions — my rebellion against mindless productivity
I am blessed to live in a climate where there are four distinct seasons in a year: winter, spring, summer, and autumn. I may have grown up in Canada, but I was a town girl, not a farm girl, and we were never gardeners nor farmers. I saw the progression of the seasons through the panes of glass in the school, under a blanket on the couch in my heated home, sweating and despairing without air conditioning in the ravages of a drought-ridden summer in the prairie.
I now live in the Czech Republic, and Czech people are deeply passionate about nature and the outdoors. They are avid hikers, cyclists, skiers. They plant gardens and forage for mushrooms and make their own wreaths for gravesites and doors. I have gained a new appreciation for Mother Nature since moving here nearly ten years ago.
I live in a flat right next to a forest with a lake. Evidence of the season’s turning is literally right outside my door. (This is one of the most magical aspects of the capital city of Prague, the abundance of forests and parks right within the city limits — you can scarcely believe you are within the embrace of a modern city of over a million people.)
I am writing this in the morning of December 29, 2024, a cup of tea happily steaming nearby. Winter sunshine is finally piercing through lingering fog, and the forest next to me is fuzzily covered in a coat of hoarfrost. My foster cat, Hepworth, is dozing in the pale sunshine on the windowsill; the pigeons have stopped coming to roost on my balcony railings since her arrival.
I feel the gentleness of winter settling inside me, slowing me down, bringing me ease. Time doesn’t really seem to exist in these days between Christmas and New Years. I struggle to remember what day it is when I’m not teaching. It hearkens back to my childhood, those long days of quiet boredom, with few responsibilities save some household chores, when a whim could take me to the nearby rink for some skating, or to the artificial hill (I grew up in the prairie, there are no hills) for some sledding, only to return apple-cheeked and ready for a cup of hot chocolate.
And books. I often received books for Christmas — like the year my parents got me all five of David Eddings’ Belgariad series, and I spent the entire Christmas break huddled in a corner of the couch with our beloved Shelby collie by my side, deeply immersed in a fantasy world of magic and mayhem. I recreate this scene now with another gifted book, my comfy armchair and a blanket, a cup of tea at my side, and allow myself to drown in story without a care for meals or meetups. I gently silence that little voice that says I should be doing something else more productive — the only ‘should’ I listen to is the one that says I should get up and use the toilet.
Why should all this end on January first, a mere eleven days after “winter” officially begins? Why this abrupt catapulting into productivity and resolutions and goal setting? Why should I interrupt my gentle wintering with unreasonable demands that conflict with the nature-sense inside me, of dormancy and reflection and rest? I used to fall prey to this made-up imposition, even though I always failed at keeping any resolution I made, and then berated myself for these failures. (Does this sound familiar, dear friend?)
No more. I refuse. In January 2025 there will be no resolutions, no goals, no intentions, even. No sighing look at my reflection in the mirror and a plaintive ‘I guess I should lose some weight’. No dates on the calendar for going to the gym (the very idea is laughable). No new money making projects, side hustles, or websites, newsletters, changes in my teaching. No force is required, not now, not in my period of gentle wintering.
Spring will come soon enough. And Mother Nature will model for me the beauty of new sprouting things, all the seeds of ideas that I allowed to rest underneath the surface of my mind. Some will sprout and grow, others will not, it depends on what I choose to nurture.
Then will follow a season of watering, weeding, pruning, removing what doesn’t work for me any longer, to allow space for what’s needful to grow. What I put my attention on will thrive, and flourish. All those beautifully rested seeds of winter will put on their summer gowns and dance madly across the stage of my life.
There may be a late frost, a summer hailstorm, but the harvest is assured. All things grow and develop in their own time and way. I feel no need to impose deadlines (have you ever stopped to look at that word, DEAD line?), because I have developed a deep and abiding sense of trust in Life itself. A tree doesn’t bear fruit twelve months of the year, and neither do I. A tree bows down to winter, releasing all the leaves of the previous summer, in blind trusting faith that new leaves will come again, new flowers, new fruit.
So I commit to the gentleness of this season, and immerse myself in the art of wintering. I have already used the autumn to release those things which no longer serve me: the dreams I nurtured which ended up being untrue, the work that chafed against my soul, my reliance on substances to help me sleep at night. I sleep cleanly now, without drugs or alcohol, and wake with night dreams on my mind full of vivid imagery and badassery. (My dream self is a genuine badass, unafraid of tornados and capable of flying planes.)
Day comes. I meditate, and write my morning pages. I surround myself with good books, clean food, fresh air in that hoarfrosty forest; I allow myself boredom, putting aside my to-do lists; I breathe mindfully, full of gratitude for finally, finally accepting the lesson that Mother Nature has been giving me all along, the lesson that she offers all of us if we take some gentle winter time to listen.
I am perfect, just as I am, right here, right now, no changes need to be made, no upgrades or improvements or growth, even. I am safe for this season to just be me, to cease my striving, my aching pulling yearning for change, growth and improvement. I am given this season of wintering, to experience quiet, peace, calm, because I know that spring will come, and spring never fails at her task. I trust the cycles and rhythms of my life, and accept that a season of quiet reflection and deep rest is needed before sprouting and growing new ideas, projects, and ways of being.
And I am kind and generous enough to myself to give myself this gift, of patience and trust and the faith of trees in winter. This is the gentle art of wintering. I invite you to join me.
Hi, I’m Jen, and I love to write and share my lived experience with you. Here are some other articles of mine that you may enjoy reading as you embark on a season of gentle wintering.
