Re-writing January, one day at a time.

a month for easing in, for living softly and dreaming wildly.

Hello, I am so glad you have found your way here… I’m Lyndsay — mother, creative and storyteller with a background in interiors PR.

Step inside Story & Thread., a cosy, layered home where the threads of creativity, interiors and mothering meet. Here, we unearth the stories from the seasons of our lives, with a house & a garden at the heart, and everyday beauty as our guide…

Hellebores and snowdrops in January by Isla Middleton.

“January dry, hard, glittering, cold, and the wicked beauty of the scraped blue skies”.

—Sylvia Plath.

Dearest reader

Happy New Year, how is January feeling to you?

This post is reaching you later than I had imagined (are people even still saying Happy New Year?!) — the end of December and beginning of January have been full to the brim, with lingering festivities, celebrations for my son’s 3rd birthday (the first of two bright January birthdays in our house), and a family trip away for some winter warmth (wonderful and initially very discombobulating!) — it is safe to say I haven’t quite ‘landed’ in 2025 yet… have you?

I haven’t had a chance to reflect fully on the past weeks, let alone the last year…or fill myself up with thoughts and hopes for the year ahead just yet. Instead of worrying about being ‘behind’, I am choosing to tune inward, as winter asks us to — and am reminded that January is a month for easing in, for living softly and dreaming wildly…

Re-writing January.

A new start or a continuation?

January is the middle month of winter, a continuation, and a deepening of the season. Although we have passed the shortest day and the light grows noticeably longer by the end of the month, we still have a lot of wintering to do.

I was fully absorbed by the festive days of December and the liminal days that followed, not because of anything in particular, but that the expanse of time seemed to require all of me. There was little space for pottering and pondering, or reflecting and dreaming as I have done in past years, or really anything at all that didn’t involve my children, but I felt surprisingly anchored. Snippets of writing and creativity were pushed to the margins and the edges of everything else, willingly this time. It felt full, of the small things of life.

Despite the intensity (and exasperation!) at times, strangely I didn’t yearn for the small pockets of space that I have become accustomed to in term time (although a breather was very necessary at times). I felt prepared — we needed this time of being nestled together in winter.

Nestling in winter.

Winter magic with omens and oracles.

Magic and creativity were woven into our days and wrapped up in the season — from walking down the stairs lit by fairy lights in the early mornings; when we glimpsed the tree twinkling in the front room; and as the wax melted another day away on the advent candle.

We lived in the half-light of midwinter, in cosy layers and heating, playing with new toys, cutting out paper snowflakes, watching (many) festive films, me escaping out into the garden to plant bulbs into the earth, finding wonder in the Paperwhites that opened their white star petals on the last day of the year — winter became a state of being.

During the late days of December, I was drawn to the beautiful ancient Celtic ritual of The Omen Days, introduced to me last year by

Kerri ní Dochartaigh

and guided this year by

Claire Amritavani Brown

in the Winter Talisman retreat. I found it to be a practice that was meaningful in its simplicity — asking nothing more than the act of noticing and observing my surroundings each day, and recording what I had been drawn to in some way. The idea is that each day’s symbol is an omen for its corresponding month in the year ahead — but perhaps rather than predicting the future, the ritual’s beauty lies in the daily reminder of just how much wonder exists in our everyday lives, even in the depths of winter.

Some of my omens included,

stillness, fog, robins, woodpeckers, clear quartz, jay, a feather, two magpies, lilac skies, moonstone, a picture of a palm tree at the bottom of my coffee cup.

Wolf moon.

Softening into a new year.

The Omen Days provided a gentle bridge over the threshold of the new year when the dawning of the 1st January, although glistening with potential and promise, can feel abrupt to me in the midst of winter.

In the garden and the woodland nearby, the shift from the end of one year to the beginning of the next elicits little visible change — the skies remain laden with winter, the light hangs low, we are enveloped by darkness for much of the day. Although we feel demands for freshness, restraint and transformation in January, it is a continuation of the months that have come before. The middle month, the belly of winter, it is often a feat of endurance, and so it is a time for the soft, expansive and the slow.

Paperwhites in a vase.

As I finally begin to orient into January, I realise that rather than wiping the slate clean, I want to linger longer in the liminal space of winter wonder.

I am replacing…

Resolution.

noun

a firm decision to do or not to do something.

…with living softly. January is a time for quietude, it begins in a hush and a lull, in whispers of desire and destiny. January requires reflection and rumination, time to bide and dwell, to sense what shape the year might take. When everything is unknown, it is all perfectly possible.

Restriction.

noun

the limitation or control of someone or something, or the state of being restricted.

…with expansion into wholeness, and beyond. Deep nourishment is needed in the cold and whilst internal growth is taking place in layers below the surface. January is a time to honour each chapter so far, to dream wildly, to demand more as we move into a deeper expression of ourselves as the seasons unfold.

Rushing.

verb

to move forward, progress, or act with haste or eagerness or without preparation.

…with easing in. January is a month of preparation, for sensing and feeling, rather than acting — and even when our next steps reveal themselves, we cannot do it all at once, there is a season for everything. Like the unhurried winter blooms, beauty is deeply rooted into the earth over weeks and months, and reveals itself in its own time.

Thank you so much for reading, I would love to hear how January is unfolding for you so far and if you are looking at it any differently this year…

P.S. See some recent winter posts below including the first edition of A Storied Home. in winter — a very gentle guide to creating a sanctuary for softening into the season.

I will also be announcing more details for A Seasonal Salon. winter edition soon — an online gathering to fully immerse ourselves within the season; to find an anchor in our days; to weave ourselves into the season’s energy and find some sense of alignment with its cues for creativity.