For me, January’s grey skies and barren landscapes often feels like a doorway into new beginnings. So let us speak of beginnings by traveling back into the first beginning.
In the beginning was the fruitful darkness, the emptiness of the universe. That beginning nothing, which gave rise to something.
From the cosmic birth of our galaxy to the cataclysms that shaped Earth, all things seen and unseen move to the sway of Nature’s cycles of generation and destruction.
In the depths of winter, nature teaches the sacred importance of rest and renewal. Plants and animals embrace dormancy, hibernation, and our souls require seasons of rest and stillness as well.
Katherine May writes in Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times:
“Doing those deeply unfashionable things—slowing down, letting your spare time expand, getting enough sleep, resting—is a radical act of feminism now, but it is essential. This is a crossroads we all know, a moment when, you need to shed a skin. If you do, you’ll expose all those painful nerve endings and feel so raw that you’ll need to take care of yourself for a while. If you don’t, then that skin will harden around you. It’s one of the most important choices you’ll ever make.”
Like nature, we do not need constant productivity. A seed grows quietly beneath frozen ground. Our quiet seasons can be seasons of deep transformation and preparation for what comes next.
Without winter’s emptiness, we would have endless growth, and we know that endless growth can quickly become invasive disease. Even the garden needs dormancy to bloom. Many seeds require cold before they can sprout.
When we have endured loss, trauma, or a profound letting go, rest and reflection help us compost what happened. We sit with our grief and allow it to be as vast as it is, so we can heal. If we skip this part of the cycle, we rob ourselves of healing.
The soul’s journey is not linear. It moves in cycles: activity and rest, growth and consolidation, outward expression and inward listening. The soul arcs in concentric circles of grief and love. In a season of grief, the soul asks for a safe place to curl up and sleep for awhile.
During our soulful winters, we might practice contemplative silence instead of constant activity. Or allow uncertainty to be a resting place, rather than a problem to solve. We can trust in unseen growth.
The Earth remains. Winter will yield to spring. Periods of rest give way to new growth. The key is to trust, knowing that what appears dormant is often preparing for renewal.
Rest is not the opposite of growth. It is the dark, unseen beginning.
May you rest in the haven of your own wintering.