"... waking gentle
to slow mornings
finding comfort in calm
relishing winter’s
precious pause
delighting in nights
dark and long ..."
Can you believe it’s March already? I used to welcome March like an old friend. If you asked me to pick a favourite month, I’m not sure I could choose between May and September. My least favourites have always been January and February, mostly due to the short days and miserable weather. The dirt track leading to our house truly lives up to its name at this time of year. It’s a challenge to get into the house without bringing in a ton of mud on your shoes.
As part of my job, I was expected to be in the office most days; in winter that involved weeks of going back and forth in the dark, with rain often lashing down for good measure. For years, I was relieved to make it through January and February, grateful for March when it arrived.
But this year has felt entirely different; I’m sure it’s because I’m no longer going out to work. This winter, free of work schedules, I’ve found my own rhythm, changed the pace of my days, settled into my skin. It has shifted my outlook on so many levels: physically, mentally and spiritually. My working year was an endless cycle of quarterly performance meetings, inspection timetables and looming deadlines. It was exciting but also exhausting. I was expected to interpret data, find solutions to problems, produce and constantly update plans; I had to know stuff to the point that my brain felt permanently full.
The first 6 months of retirement didn’t feel quite real because I wasn’t at home much of the time. I went travelling for a while. As I arrived back in the UK, autumn was giving way to winter. It’s in winter that I’ve come home, in more ways than one.
I listened to an interview with Fatima Bhutto this week by Sam Baker on her excellent podcast, The Shift. They discussed the sense of freedom they felt when they could admit to not knowing something. Instead of shame, they sensed opportunity. They didn’t feel the pressure to find a solution, simply because they felt, as they aged, they no longer had anything to prove. I can relate absolutely.
It has been such a release to let go of the burden of knowing stuff, free from the expectation of having the answer to someone else’s problem. It’s opened up space in my head just for me. Rather than follow my old work-schedule, I’ve been dipping into the Celtic Year, which is this year’s main theme for an online women’s group, of which I’m a member. February marks Imbolc, a festival closely associated with the goddess Brigid and/or St Brigid (or Brigit) who may be one and the same person, real or otherwise. Imbolc also marks the start of the lambing season and, in old Irish, means in the belly. In early February, it feels like a promise of things to come, but not quite yet.
It’s hard not to notice the emergence of spring because it’s literally everywhere! First the snowdrops appear, closely followed by crocuses and then daffodils. The days gradually grow longer. It all sounds joyous, and I know it will be, but I want to say: not yet. This year, I’ve matched winter’s pace. My days have felt gentle and muted. I’ve relished the opportunity to think and write by the fire, as short days gave way to dark nights. I’ve appreciated nature around me: the way trees preserve their energy; how slowly and surely old growth gives way to new; the resilience of birds who winter among us.
All this is reason enough to feel differently this year. I feel more in tune with my own body, more aware of the natural world of which I’m a part. Perhaps I’ve been out of sync in previous years, always too ready to throw off winter’s coat at the first hint of spring. Actually, Imbolc marks the halfway point between winter solstice and the spring equinox. Spring is not quite here, but around the corner. This year I’m willing to wait. Content to stay hunkered down in winter, ready at the threshold, to welcome in spring.
fi wynne writes 