Sharing the secrets of a midwinter garden.

contemplations from my time spent under the spell of precious winter light.

Dec 20, 2024

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…

“These nights are gifts,
our hands unwrapping the darkness
to see what we have.”

—Carol Ann Duffy, December.

Dearest reader…

How are you feeling as we move towards the shortest, darkest day, here in the northern hemisphere? Or indeed, the longest, brightest day in the south?

It feels to me as though time has suddenly condensed into a few hurried days as we approach Christmas, Chanukah, the solstice and the end of this calendar year, so I am reminding myself that there is still time, there is no rush, that I can let go of at least one thing and the world will not end — that here in the northern hemisphere, the living world deems this the season of rest.

As an antidote to the festive fervour, I created A Storied Home. in winter published last week — a very gentle guide to creating a sanctuary for softening into the season ahead, led by the senses, and our stories to cultivate a feeling of sacredness and homecoming.

I hope you will be able to take a moment to curl up with your copy and a cup of something warm over the coming days and weeks.

Read A Storied Home.

Today I am thinking about the time I have spent out in the garden in these days leading up to the winter solstice. At this time of year, the garden becomes a place of muted, restrained beauty, almost haunting in its stillness, aside from the darting to and fro of garden birds — it is the place I am drawn to in a quiet quest for calm each day, more than in any winter before. It is an honour to tend to this small patch of land in this season, and to share the living secrets of a midwinter garden…

Tales from a garden in winter.

A winter gift.

Spending time in the garden in winter feels like a stolen secret, one that I had not been privy to in any meaningful way before now. Being out in the garden within these darkest of days bestows a gift wrapped in silver half light. Even when not feeling my strongest after being struck down by a dreadful flu, some of my best winter days so far have been the ones where I have wrapped up in layers of warmth, donned my sturdy winter boots and resolved to get out into the garden, with a hot drink in hand, and often the words of others in my ears. I have found that time spent under the spell of precious winter light and fresh, cool air to be bracing, reviving and restoring.

After leaving much of the garden to its own devices in autumn, allowing the flowers to enjoy their final flourish, before unravelling of their own accord —being back in the garden has renewed me. Despite it feeling both dishevelled and stark out there, like a corner of wild woodland with its soft moss and browning ferns, it also feels like a sanctuary of stillness and quietude, something that is difficult to access anywhere else at this time of year.

Precious winter light.

Some days, the light appears like a murky blur as it reaches through a blanket of thick cloud, and everything is shrouded in a kind of half light, even at midday. Other days, the sky is a piercing chalcedony blue and the light a clearest quartz, despite the sun hanging so low that it barely reaches above the garden fence. The soft sun filters through the pale silhouette of a bare silver birch tree in the garden behind ours, pooling light onto the ground and casting shadows into the edges and corners.

Clearing a path in winter.

After all the gathering, layering and harvesting in early autumn, I was called to pause instead of shedding or letting go as the season unfolded — it is only now in winter that I finally feel ready to clear a path. In any spare moment, I am working my way around the garden, sifting through the brittle bones of straw-like stems and mottled leaves of old growth, cutting back the dried out fern fronds, gathering wet mulchy leaves, and the debris of scattered grasses whipped up by winter storms.

It feels as though this is just the first layer of clearing, I am taking away only the pieces that come away easily. I am yet to cut all the way down to the ground, though it feels essential to begin to make space for the gauzy winter light to reach the earth — where the first determined shoots of new growth are making their way skyward. After clearing the space, I step away, intending to place only the lightest touch on the land, conscious not to trample on the new life coming to the surface.

Circles of growth.

Witnessing the spears of shoots emerging from the undergrowth feels heartening and uplifting — it is a promise of what is to come, that the garden is forgiving, there is another chance to make it beautiful, there is new scenery waiting in the wings.

To accompany the first eager shoots that are already on their way, I have planted new bulbs — varieties of narcissus and tulip, and some summer snowflakes (similar to the traditional snowdrop flowering later in spring) too. Seeing the shoots rise up from the earth whilst the old growth is still dwindling tells me of the reassuring continuity of the growth cycle, that each stage is not a separate entity existing in isolation, but that each step is necessary and entwined with the next. And despite the appearance of emptiness on the surface, when I dig a little below the surface I find the cool, damp earth is teaming with life. Something that the sweet and enthusiastic robin who now accompanies me whenever I’m in the garden, seems very interested in too…

Planting bulbs with a Robin friend in the garden.

Secrets from a winter garden.

A time to simplify - at a time of year that can feel pressured, overwhelming and demanding, the garden in winter tells me that it is finally time to simplify, to release and let go. By making space, we allow the light in to create space and an empty void to make sense of ourselves and the world around us, before the promise and potential of new life new begins.
*What can you let go of this festive season?
Trust in unseen growth - as most visible growth above ground halts, many trees and plants spend their energy on root growth (as long as the soil is not frozen), searching for and retaining nutrients in preparation for spring. When writing, I came across the quote by 16th century Persian mystic Rumi,
“And don't think the garden loses its ecstasy in winter.
It's quiet, but the roots are down there riotous”.
Resting during the inward-looking seasons allows us to foster deeper, more meaningful growth. By embracing the pace of the slower seasons, we are laying the foundations for our next period of expansion and expression.
*What can you nourish now, to allow for growth when the light returns?
Listen inwards - whilst the festive season can be joyfully jubilant it can feel noisy and pull us in many different directions. Instead, a cloak of stillness falls over the living world during the winter months. In the quietude of the garden, I can hear my thoughts and ideas more clearly. In the winter darkness, my dreams become clearer and brighter. When I can make time to be still and in solitude, scattered pieces of myself come back together, rearranged once again.
*When can you take a moment alone to return to yourself this festive season?
Know that the light will return - whilst the garden is a collage of muddy brown, straw-like stems and and bare branches, the evergreens bring an emerald lustre to the back edge. I have spent some time cutting back the reams of ivy that cover, and cascade over our back fence, bringing some indoors to drape over bannisters and mantelpieces. I have learned that this is a practice harking back to ancient times, when evergreens inside symbolised the strength needed to endure the darkest night, whilst holding onto optimism and hope that life will return.
*What do you need to embrace the darkness at this time of year?
Soften, and soften some more - whilst we can struggle with the short hours of low light at this time of year combined with a seemingly endless to-do list, the garden takes it as an opportunity to pause, to release effort and rest. Drenching winter rain allows the ground to soften, to become receptive and to absorb nutrients from fallen leaves which act as a blanket of warmth on the earth. When I sense tension building in my body/mind, I remember that instead of bracing myself, I can soften (and then soften some more). The slower seasons remind us that we don’t need to do everything at once, that there is a time for everything.
*Where can you soften, safe in the knowledge that we are in a season of rest?

Returning indoors in the afternoon light.

Thank you so much for reading, and for allowing so many of my thoughts and words to find you this year, I really appreciate you being here and taking the time to read Story & Thread.

If I am not in touch before, I wish you a very merry Christmas and Yuletide, I hope there will be moments of both softness and sparkle.