Lanterns in Winter

Embracing the season: a mindful guide to tending your inner hearth

Steam rises from a mug of cocoa, cinnamon and smoke curling into the crisp air, the scent of woodfire catches as frost feathers the windows, delicate as breath.

I want to turn away from the noise of the world, to slip into the hush beneath it. To listen to the quiet only winter knows.

Slowly, we are edging closer to the winter solstice. The days grow shorter, the darkness lengthens. Mother Earth calls us to rest. We often want to skip winter, to be in a constant state of blossoming and summer. Yet, we are cyclical beings, which is easy to forget in a society built on linear progress. All seasons are necessary.

We can see this time as an obstacle to overcome, a time to get through. Or we can light a candle, hang fairy lights, and move at the rhythm of the season. Not the Black Friday and rush-to-buy Christmas presents rhythm, but the one nature reveals beneath her bare-boned trees. The crystalline clarity of a star-studded yuletide’s night.

This practice of wintering is sacred. And we need to protect it.

Since moving to my new apartment in October, I have witnessed the slow, but dramatic change of landscape. Four seasons do not seem enough to describe the depth and the diversity. There are the in-between transformations, the gentle unfolding. Just as we, as part of nature, change and shift in small ways each day.

At first, the trees were golden, full of colour. With the October days passing, the tones changed to burnished rust. The sun rising later and the sun setting earlier, but more intensely, the sky full of beauty and promise. This is what nourished me when I felt almost burnt out, recovering from a few intense months that left my spirit frayed.

Now, most of the branches are shedding their last leaves. I find myself turning more inwards, needing more rest and craving rituals that mark not just the passing of the day, but honour what is right in front of me. At the same time, it is almost as if I have been nourished a little bit more each day, gathering pieces of myself back home.

Sometimes I think of Frederick, the little mouse from the children’s book. The one who, instead of gathering corn, sat and watched the sky, memorised the colours, collected words and warmth for the freezing nights to come, made out of his vivid imagination.

I’ve always loved this book. Perhaps because Frederick trusted that his noticing mattered, even if society tends to measure worth mostly by visible productivity. He understood that this too is sustenance. That creating art, even in what seems to be hopeless times, warms not just our souls, but weaves a web of stories that bring together community by the fireside. A sacred place to share.

I like to imagine I am doing the same as little Frederick: paying attention, inviting contentment and sadness both to the table, gathering wonder, making space for what needs to be heard, listening to my seasons. Even, or especially, when I feel behind or guilty for not being able to do more.

Somehow, I feel more like myself in autumn and winter. Perhaps because the world seems so full of activity and busyness in summer, and I can’t keep up. My chronic illness often demands more rest and I have to decide where to dedicate my energy to, if I have enough left after work and daily chores. In winter, I can read in bed and embrace the darkness, without feeling guilty (most of the time, at least).

This is not the season for striving, for resolutions or relentless doing. This is the season of listening: of tending the hearth within, of letting your wild self roam, of awakening your inner poet.

There are, unfortunately, some things that are out of our hands. We still have to earn money and survive in a capitalistic world that is not made to suit all our needs or adjust to changes, disconnected from natural patterns. Often we think that our wellbeing is completely in our hands, yet we are also part of a bigger system. Remembering that there is nothing wrong with us, but that we are trying our best in sometimes impossible structures can open us up to self-compassion.

Each year, I struggle with New Year’s Eve. For me, it feels more natural to start the new year in autumn, like the Celtic calendar does. We are suddenly expected to have fresh goals and start into action, when the Earth itself is still under blankets of snow and not ready to wake up yet. The Christmas decorations get taken down and suddenly things seem more dreary.

Still, we are not without agency. There is freedom in choosing to watch the view outside your window for five minutes, rebellion in relaxing without distraction.

If you love this season or struggle with it (or both), I have compiled a list which might help you embrace it:

• Adjust to changes: We often expect ourselves to be the same as we were in summer, to always have the same energy levels. And when we don’t, we berate ourselves for it and wonder if there is something wrong with us. We often forget that we are nature too. Offer yourself grace and listen to your body. Maybe needing more rest is not always a bad thing, but a natural response to changes.

  
  

• Take a mindful photo each day: Instead of taking plenty of photos that you never look at again, decide to take one photo each day of something that brought you joy, wonder or sparked your curiosity. This could be bright red berries of holly, your bowl of delicious pumpkin soup, a mug of steaming hot coffee. The only rule: Do it mindfully. Which angle will you take the photo of, will you zoom in or out? Play with light and shadows. At the end of winter, you’ll have your own little diary of beautiful moments.
  
  

• Rethink traditions: Which traditions fill your heart and which ones do you look forward to? Are there some that you only take part in because “it has always been this way”? Perhaps there is a dinner with distant relatives that you go to, but secretly dread. Many of us have a tendency to “people please” and to do it all. Maybe this year, you can say no to some obligations that you do not necessarily need to attend. This means you will have more time and energy to say yes to what nourishes you.

  
  

• Look outside your window regularly or go for a walk: Go for a walk with your phone on airplane mode or switched off. Notice with all your senses. What can you see, smell, see, hear, feel…? You could also make a game out of it: Try to find five things that are red today. Unfortunately, the outdoors aren’t accessible for everyone at all times. But maybe it is possible to look out the window. Notice that even grey skies change constantly, even if these shifts might be subtle. Can you explore the micro seasons that gently transform the landscape? Or perhaps look at your house plant with fresh eyes. There are patterns, colours, and small, mesmerising ecosystems to be discovered.
  
  

• Cultivate wonder: If you have a diary or calendar, how about you write down special moments or “first time” events of this season? You could write down the first time sitting by the fireplace or an especially delicious hot chocolate with whipped cream. Maybe you can even add cute stickers. The more we deliberately notice and celebrate the seemingly mundane, the more magic and moments of awe return to our days and nights.
  
  

• Journaling: When it comes to writing, why not journal from time to time? Not with any specific goal, just write whatever comes to your mind, what you noticed, what you are feeling or what your ideal winter day would look like. You could also use some writing prompts or journal about a wintery word. I especially love to reflect around the festivals of the wheel of the year, such as Samhain and winter solstice. Let writing become a ritual of presence.

  

• Embrace cosiness: Instead of using harsh lights in the mornings and evenings, bring some twinkle into your house. This could be fairy lights, candles, lamps with an orange glow. Cosiness also doesn’t have to mean more things. Perhaps you already have a favourite blanket, a hot water bottle and warm socks. Or you can get comfy in bed and spend an afternoon reading. Embrace a childlike sense of what would bring you comfort in this moment, and leave the guilt that we have been so often conditioned to feel, out the door.
  
  

• Follow the melodies of birds: Walks are often accompanied by the song of birds. I love standing still and trying to follow the sound first with my ears, then with my eyes. You can often spot them, even though for some you need more patience. Robins are especially curious and often come quite close. The more you pay attention, the more birds you will spot. I often use the Merlin app (no advertisement, it’s a free app and I just enjoy using it) which identifies birdsong. There are often many more species accompanying our outdoor ventures than we thought at first.
  
  

• Spark your imagination with books: If you like reading, gather some of your favourite types of books, and even better, if they have a winter theme. You don’t even have to spend money if you can borrow them from your local library. Make yourself a cup of coffee or tea and let yourself be transported. Lately, I’ve been drawn to stories that carry winter’s tune — books like The Company of Owls by Polly Atkin or A Woman in the Polar Night by Christiane Ritter. Let words remind you of warmth and possibility.

  
  

• Watch a movie without scrolling on your phone: How often do we watch a movie, but only pay half attention, with our phones in hand? Maybe even place it in a different room, so you don’t get distracted or tempted to reach for it. I love to re-watch some of my seasonal favourites such as You’ve Got Mail, While You Were Sleeping and National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation. Let them feel like old friends.
  
  

• Get crafting: Connect with childlike joy. You could puzzle, make paper stars, paint, bake or write Christmas cards. You might want to listen to your favourite music while you immerse yourself in something creative. You do not need to be an expert or call yourself an artist (even though I believe we are all artists in our own ways). There is no pressure. If something catches your curiosity, try it. Again, you can also use books from libraries for inspiration or instructions, or find videos online. Let your hands remember what joy feels like, and allow your thoughts to drift like water in flow.
  
  

• And finally, don’t get caught in the productivity and self-improvement trap: You don’t always need to fill every single minute. You don’t constantly need to be doing something. This can also apply to wellness routines. Yoga, qi gong and similar practices, can be incredibly helpful. But once we feel that they have become just another to do on our list, perhaps take a step back for a few days. Free, unplanned for time can sometimes be just what we need. And some days, if all we can manage is to survive, however that might look like for you, it’s okay. You are enough.

Remember, what might work for another person might not be right for you. Pause during the day. Open your senses and look up from your phone. You might discover a path that wasn’t there before. But maybe you’ll simply listen to the guidance of the blustery wind, of delicate snowflakes gently swirling, to the symphony of rain’s dance. And most importantly, to your ancient wisdom and rhythms within. If there is no clarity, go for what feels warm, soothing or whichever sparks your curiosity.

As I sit here, the hoot of a snowy owl brings me back to the here and now, and reminds me to look outside. I remember: there’s a spark inside me that never goes out, even in the darkest winter’s night. A golden ember, steady and alive, waiting for us to rekindle its flames. The fire crackles in the hearth of your heart, burning through what has been, gently thawing what’s yet to come, and illuminating brightly what longs to be held.

This, I’ve learned, is what matters: watching the light move across the room, gazing at the oak moon, storing small pieces of the world. Eventually, these glimmers become a lantern for your heart. An intricate map home, a devotion to aliveness.

Winter teaches us to tend to that inner hearth. To honour the slowness, to let it feed the warmth that carries us forward. It asks us to embrace the season, not as an interruption, but as a rhythm, a remembering.

Flowers will bloom, sun will linger and trees will turn golden again eventually. Winter is not a pause in the story; it’s a chapter of deep listening and gentle, at times fierce, becoming. Sit with the darkness a little longer — it has so much to offer.

And when the first light returns, you’ll recognise it not as something new, but as something you’ve been nurturing all along.

How will you honour yourself — and the season — in the weeks ahead, without pressure? I’d love to hear how you’re tending your own hearth this winter.

From this first flicker of December light, may this season nourish you,

Christine xx

All photos by Christine Dietz