A love letter to winter.
things that caught my eye (and heart) in the stillness of winter…
I’m Lyndsay, mother, creative and storyteller with a background in interiors PR. Story & Thread. is a weekly letter exploring the intersection of creativity, mothering and the living world, with a home and a garden at the heart...
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“Even this late it happens:
the coming of love, the coming of light.
You wake and the candles are lit as if by themselves,
stars gather, dreams pour into your pillows,
sending up warm bouquets of air.
Even this late the bones of the body shine
and tomorrow’s dust flares into breath.”
—Mark Strand, The Coming of Light.
Hi everyone
Just like on the 1st of this month, filled with hope at Imbolc, writing to you on the last day holds a certain significance, especially as today, 29th February holds a rare gift of added time.
Walking to nursery this morning, I was reminded that the last Leap Year fell in the midst of a postpartum daze with my daughter not yet a month old — I can recall the combined rawness and wonder like it’s yesterday and yet it is also a distant blur in my mind…and on the next 29th February, she will be 8 years old (I can only imagine…!).
The additional day has a similar flavour to the divine liminal days between years that have ancient significance in many cultures — as time that holds otherworldy magic where really anything is possible. Today is a reminder too, of the shapeshifting layers of time where there is a depth and fullness that goes beyond the calendar.
I am excited to share my love letter to winter — this auspicious additional day on the cusp of two seasons feels like an opportune moment to reflect on the fragments I have been noticing and collecting — jewelled pieces of light that have caught my eye (and heart) as I paused in the stillness, shadows and silhouettes of winter…
From darkness to light.
We have journeyed a long way through the winter wilderness — we were plunged into the depths of darkness, doused in swirling storms and chilled to our bones, but we are now making our way out, towards the light.
There is a nascent (though perhaps ancient) part of me that actually feels more than a tinge of sadness that winter is drawing to a close this year. Rather like the early days of the postpartum cocoon, winter provides permission to go slow, to turn inwards and find a place of comfort…
Winter dreaming.
Winter’s haze of hibernation speaks not of change and new beginnings but instead a time for softness, listening, feeling and dreaming. Rather than rushing forward as we are often conditioned to, deep trust is required to allow dreams to drop in and distil in their own time. When my mind veers into a story that I am not yet where I ‘should’ be, I am reminded that the living world does not rush, and there is time.
At the same time, seeing green shoots in midwinter spoke to me of the closeness and wholeness in everything — an enduring continuity between light and dark, inward and outward, stillness and growth. I hope that as the sun’s power strengthens and colour returns to the living world, I too, will feel naturally inclined to turn outwards and nurture the glowing embers, the deep roots and the seedlings planted in late winter.
Gentle alchemy.
We looked to the fire element to warm and inspire us during these cold, dark months — allowing things to simmer below the surface, embracing the slow burn. Again trust is required that a commitment to creative rest and gentle alchemy that will fuel creativity in the growth seasons ahead…
Winter blooms.
Aside from bringing in swathes of ivy from the garden in December, for much of winter I have been drawn almost entirely inside, allowing the garden to rest.
At midwinter, amidst the starkness, I could see tiny shoots of new growth; by early January clusters of snowdrops and hellebores had emerged; and at Imbolc as February began, I found tightly clasped buds on almost every bare branch in the garden. Now at the end of February, whilst getting back out there in pockets of time and clement weather to cut back wisteria and roses, I have noticed buds are burgeoning at their seams and restrained brushes of colour are appearing from the bulbs I tenderly planted at the beginning of the season.
I wrote about an entwined love of snowdrops, the ‘milk flower of the snow’, representing the infinite layers of the unfolding mothering experience with my two winter babies; the coexisting truths of softness and strength and the lamplight of optimism they bring when we need it on dark days. My love of snowdrops took me both to a hidden walled garden tucked away in North London and to a soulful tattoo studio in an intensely cool corner of Hackney. During my time there, the artist listened to my stories of the symbolism and significance of the flower and spent time creating the perfect line drawing to be inscribed to my skin…
A winter palette.
My garden in winter is a palette of muddy browns and straw-like shades, smudged onto a canvas of deep evergreens, strewn with skeletal lace-like forms of past petals.
Inside, holly and ivy have adorned the staircase and much of our entranceway, alongside twinkling lights, dried oranges and glittering pine cones. The cool, earthy darkness of the Christmas tree and festive table softened with the dusky pinks that I can’t resist and highlighted with glistening shimmers of jewelled baubles, candles and lights.
My winter palette of dark tones, dusky pinks, lace and shimmers…
And now at the end of the season, chalky pastel shades are coming to the fore against the backdrop of mossy tones. Starting with porcelain snowdrops and pinkish hellebores, moving into the pale yellow of primroses and Narcissi…
At home in winter.
Winter has not felt like the season for making any changes at home. Instead I brought the season in with me, draping the house in ivy and filling it with twinkly light. It has been about being as cosy as possible and filling our space with evolving decorative elements for the festive season and birthdays — important and necessary in the darkest days of the year.
After having two rooms painted in the late autumn days in November, we have continued to slowly shape the rooms, noticing how we live in them. My writing space now has a rattan pendant light, lots of candles and is a holding place for pots of over-wintering geraniums that I hope to move out into the garden or balcony soon.
My winter joys.
A hot bath and a book - steam rising, both soaking in and melting away of the day (finding so much beauty and truth reading Milk by
, The Blue Jay’s Dance by Louise Erdrich and Twelve Moons by ).Dark inky mornings - the enchantment of waking up, drawing the curtains to disclose more darkness beyond whilst neighbouring windows reveal tiny lights and stories of lives held there.
Planting bulbs - getting them in before Christmas, pearlescent wishes that are already beginning to come true.
Messages from birds - the company of a jolly Robin in the garden, an unexpected visit from a Jay and a journey south paved by the wisdom of migratory birds in January.
Sunrise swims in a velvet sea - early mornings floating somewhere between sea and watercolour sky as the last stars lingered, on our sojourn south.
Snowdrops and ink - harbinger of hope and memento of meaning sealed to skin.
In the Bleak Midwinter - enveloped by the wistfulness of a young choir evoking a swell of beauty and longing.
Winter moons - an unrivalled glistening clarity held within the piercing fullness of the Cold, Wolf and Snow Moons.
Evergreens indoors - unknowingly tracing the steps of ancestors by feeling the pull to bring ivy indoors, evergreens being the embodiment of life and trust that the light will return.
Wrapping paper - clandestine sessions of wrapping gifts in brown paper and stars.
Swirling ice patterns - lifting the blinds to reveal a window encased in ice as if a spell cast by the Snow Queen or Jack Frost.
Winter light and snowflake shadows on the walls - is there anything better than winter sunshine…?
Nostalgia and dreams - a time that feels ingrained in my being and yet with shimmers of *what could be* as the year ahead unfolds.
Paper snowflakes and honeycomb hearts - collecting decorations to bring joy and celebration to our home in winter.
Forest dwellings - homemaking with little ones in the woods.
Museum meanders - taking myself to see The Mother & The Weaver during its final days in the beautiful building of the Foundling Museum and being broken open to learn of the place’s history.
Advent chocolate, clementines and pancakes - delicious winter loves.
Photographs and memories - finally framing moments from the earliest chapters of our family.
Flower fairies - we will always have the flower fairies.
Pale yellow primroses and Narcissus - the return of the light.
Paper snowflake shadows, twinkly lights, the full Cold moon, migratory birds and footprints, sunrise swims, January dreaming, forest dwellings, snowdrops emerge, early blossom and flower fairies.
I hope you enjoyed my winter musings and would love to hear your own finds…How did winter feel for you this year…? How are you feeling now as we move towards the spring light…?
Thank you as always for reading and joining me here.
Such beauty in your words and the transmission here… winter has been both nourishing and depleting this year… and I can’t pretend I am not thirsty for the warmer rays of sun to land on my skin. Every glimmer of light we get I feel like I’m lapping up frantically!!! I love winter and yet I am also very ready to unfurl myself now and move towards spring. Your words are tonic always xxx
Your post is a gift of noticing, of the things we are grateful for, and I particularly like how you've reflected on the colours of the season - so beautiful.