When the Light Declines
Katherine May’s Wintering Shows How to Find Creative Growth in the Winter
As the light declines and winter descends in the northern hemisphere, many of us feel the pull to snuggle up in our blankets, sip something warm, and indulge in our own human version of hibernation. Yet working writers don’t always plan—or desire—to slow down, especially not when we’ve been told we shouldn’t lift our foot from the gas pedal if we want to be “successful.” Industrialization drives us to reach for ever greater heights of productivity and, therefore, surely, success. We must write, edit, publish, promote. Then do it again, and over and over in an unending cycle until we can’t possibly do it anymore. Deadlines hold us in a firmer grip than daylight, binding us so tightly we know we might break if something goes wrong.
That cycle is the expectation, the required cadence of life painted in so many authors’ minds, but that doesn’t have to be reality.
It can’t be.
These beliefs about success, productivity, and a life well lived weren’t always etched in our minds. Even in our not-so-distant past, we didn’t strive for maximum productivity all year long. Longer days meant more time spent in the sun's warmth, but shorter days meant more time near the hearth. The solstices were marked with deep reverence, the equinoxes celebrated with festivals, and communities worked closely together to honor the wheel of the year. Seasonal rhythms affected more than just temperate climates; they were global, and polar and equatorial communities were also shaped by their seasons. Whether through cultivating and harvesting, foraging and gathering, or creating and teaching, our activities ebbed and flowed with the world around us.
Creatives, especially writers and storytellers, were not immune to or set apart from these cycles—they were the heart of them, bringing the community together and sharing history, fables and folklore, tales of strength, and stories that brought hope for brighter days to come. If you’ve ever felt drawn to recede in the dark season, or compelled to rebel against constant productivity, then you’ll find validation in Katherine May’s memoir Wintering. In it, she encourages us to look more closely at natural rhythms as a source of inspiration to better care for ourselves while cultivating growth and inspiration.
The Cost of Constant Light
Although industrialization has brought us a multitude of advances in technology, energy, and medicine, it has also moved us increasingly away from the natural rhythms of life. Widely available energy means it’s easier to heat homes in the winter or cool them in the summer and fill every room with false daylight. Even our sleep schedules now fit the unwavering work schedule, rather than the work schedule fitting the undulating daylight hours.
Among the many costs of all this light and industry is burnout—a spirit-shattering condition we’ve all heard about and that many of us have experienced. As much as we wish we could power through every day of every week of every year with consistent, unwavering levels of energy, we simply can’t. We are the creators of industry, not the rising population of machines we’ve designed to automate an ever-increasing number of jobs. As humans, we require self-care, work-life balance, and better sleep to thrive and explore the vastness of our creative potential.
The Impossible Equation
In May’s memoir, she explores what enduring winter means both in the physical context of the cold season and in the personal context of life’s difficult times. She reveals how our loss of connection with winter—and the local communities outside our own homes—has shaped our modern cultural beliefs about rest and the natural ebb and flow of life. Many Western cultures have come to view the need for rest or withdrawal as weakness, or even as the result of some personal failing, as if produced by an incorrect equation in our individual lives: Money x (Productivity - Happiness) = Success.
The lie is that if only we can find the right equation, we’ll ascend to the pinnacle of the mountain we’ve been climbing, or reach the far edge of the storm we’ve been battling. From those points, life will be an easy, steady walk, or smooth sailing into a watercolor sunset.
The truth is a far cry from the standard hero’s journey. There is no simple plot arc; no clear beginning, middle, and end to mark our journey. We are living in the moment. Our lives bob upon the waves, buoyed by hope and ambition, then pulled beneath the cold water during stormy weather.
So how do we manage it?
Return to Winter
There is an apt maxim you may have heard: “If you don’t schedule a break, your body will do it for you.” Before we had the breadth of our modern conveniences, winters were a forced break. Although there would always be grueling, time-consuming work to be done, there were natural limits to it. Those limits haven’t quite been abolished, but they’re now mostly ignored, if not negated. When we get tired, we brighten the lights, brew coffee, or quickly heat up some soup, then get right back to what we were doing. Instead of letting the shadows of winter and the flicker of candle or lamplight lull us into gentle sleep, many are tempted to binge their next television obsession until they’re bleary-eyed and brain-fogged.
As writers, we can learn not only from May’s enchanting, thought-provoking memoir but also from other cultures. Pen some time in your planner to learn what other cultures, past and present, do during the winter. Consider exploring the winter practices of your ancestors for inspiration on how you can embrace the season.
The purpose of this, beyond inspiration—and, inherently, story fodder—is to tap into that instinctual piece of yourself. Let it guide you to listen more closely to what you need this winter for your brain, body, spirit, and creativity. Do you long to slow your pace and retreat from social activities? Or are you hungry for cozy social events and merry gatherings? Consider why, then build more of what you desire into your schedule.
Live in the moment, in your body, and feel the world around you, if not for its own sake, then for the sake of better describing the sensation of icy North Atlantic wind biting your exposed skin, the crashing of winter’s waves on the shores of Lake Superior, or the sound of freshly fallen snow crunching beneath your boots on a remote Appalachian mountain.
Cultivate your own wintering practice for the times when you need it most. In the autumn, trees cut off the supply of nutrients to their leaves, shedding their coats to conserve energy for hard, lean times. Perhaps shedding your leaves means disappearing from social media for a while, letting digital cobwebs gather on your newsletter software, or reducing your participation in public life, physically or digitally. Once you’ve identified what’s draining you, don’t feel obligated to keep doing it; take a step back to center your writing and yourself, then reevaluate.
During hard times, whether brought on by physical or mental health concerns, burnout, tragedies, or any number of other reasons, there is no reason to be ashamed for sheltering and protecting yourself. As May explains, trees in the winter aren’t merely dead things waiting for resurrection. All right, we already knew that part. But she beautifully reminds us that not only are they still alive; the new nubs of the next season’s blossoms are already growing before the old leaves have completely fallen. During their winter, trees still produce nourishment for the surrounding forest, but they do so quietly and mostly unseen. You can do the same. Even if no one else sees the work you’re doing, your effort and your whole health still matter just as much.
Even in our winters, in the darkest moments, when we feel bereft of our usual leaves—the pieces of us that others see most prominently—there is beauty and nourishment for ourselves and for those who depend on us. And most of all, there is still growth happening, even in the cold, and even in the darkness.
Keep in mind that our “winters” may not always happen in the cold months and can last however long they need to alongside lifestyle shifts, medical diagnoses, or burnout. When spring comes again—whenever your energy and creative spirit return—you also don’t have to immediately pick up all the things you set aside. Carefully reconsider what you take on again, such as marketing or administrative tasks that drained you of more resources than they returned. Rather than forcing rhythms and a pace that don’t align with this season of your life, allow yourself to live and create in ways that bring you joy, meaning, and freedom for experiencing both the highs and the lows.
Do not fear the decline of light this winter, because it may be the perfect opportunity to shed a few leaves, turn your attention inward, and nourish quiet growth, so you might blossom more brightly with your creativity in the spring.
Audrey Hughey
