Wintering: The Art of Slowing Down and Remembering

There’s a moment each year when the air shifts — when sunlight softens, shadows stretch longer, and the world seems to whisper, slow down.
Autumn is the earth’s exhale, a tender release before the long rest of winter. And in that pause, something sacred stirs.

We call this time “wintering” — not just the season, but a state of being.
As the leaves fall and the veil between worlds thins, we’re invited to do the same — to let go, to turn inward, to listen for what is trying to find its way back to us.

The Thinning Veil

October holds a kind of hush that feels almost holy.
It’s when the boundary between the seen and unseen softens, and our ancestors feel closer — not as memories, but as presence.

This time of year always brings me back to my grief altar. The flicker of candlelight, the smell of smoke, the hush in the room — it all feels like a quiet reunion. I find myself speaking aloud to my parents, my siblings, my great-grandparents. Sometimes I ask questions. Sometimes I just sit in the stillness and listen.

When the veil is thin, remembrance becomes a form of conversation.
And maybe that’s what survival really is — learning how to keep the conversation going.

The Sacred Art of Slowing Down

Modern life pushes us toward constant movement — more productivity, more noise, more doing. But nature knows better. She slows down without shame.

The trees shed what they no longer need. The soil rests. The animals burrow into warmth. The earth remembers what our bodies often forget: that rest is part of the rhythm, not a reward we earn.

Katherine May writes in Wintering that “wintering is a season in the cold. It’s a fallow period in life when you’re cut off from the world, feeling rejected, sidelined, blocked from progress, or cast into the role of an outsider.” But she also reminds us that wintering teaches us how to heal.

And Tricia Hersey, in Rest Is Resistance, calls rest “a portal for healing, imagination, and liberation.”
Both ideas hold truth: slowing down isn’t giving up — it’s returning.

Tending the Roots

In Solace, I often speak of grief as a garden.
We tend it, season after season, through both bloom and decay.
But during wintering, we tend to the roots — the unseen, the quiet, the deep.

Roots survive underground, nourished by darkness. They rest, but they are not idle. They gather strength for what comes next.
Our own roots — our memories, our grief, our resilience — need the same care.

This is the season to feed them: with reflection, with gentleness, with unhurried breath.
It’s okay to be still. It’s okay to be quiet. It’s okay to need less.

Listening for the Ancestors

As the world slows, our senses sharpen. We notice what we missed in the rush — the sound of wind through bare branches, the scent of fallen leaves, the pulse beneath the quiet.
That’s when our ancestors draw near.

This thinning of the veil isn’t meant to haunt us. It’s meant to remind us that we’re never walking alone.
Their wisdom, their endurance, their love — it all hums beneath our skin, carrying us forward.

Lighting a candle, pouring a cup of tea, whispering their names — these small rituals become bridges between worlds.

The Call to Winter

Wintering is not a punishment; it’s a permission.
A call to soften, to rest, to remember.

As the days shorten and the world turns inward, may you find the courage to do the same.
Tend your roots. Listen for what your ancestors whisper in the quiet. Let yourself be held by the stillness.

Because rest, as Hersey says, is a form of resistance. And healing — true healing — often begins in the dark.