... is the perfect time to rest.
Time to read a novel that demands our full attention.
Time to follow the lead of mother nature, to bury ourselves under the thickest of blankets, to hunker down, as my mom likes to say; a hibernation of sorts.
Time to linger long around the dinner table, candles burning low, dinner plates left on the kitchen counter 'til morning, conversation continuing past bedtime.
Time to recover from the rush of the holidays, release expectations, rejoice in cancelled plans, restore our weary souls.
Winter has its own relaxed rhythm, and we either slow dance with it, or use our energy to fight it.
I choose the slow dance.
I'll save my energy for spring, for sunshine, for blue sky days and late, peachy sunsets, for growing season, for the spirited rhythms of the season to come.
But for now, I rest.
I go to work, sure. But in my spirit, where deep calls to deep, I follow the gentle leading of the One who created the seasons, whose voice whispers to me, "Look outside, my dear. See that thick cover of snow? Hear the absence of birdsong? Feel the frost on your windowpane? Smell the woodsmoke? Taste the homemade bread? Trust me -- this is the season of rest."
So, I eschew the glare of artificial light, silence the blare of the TV, turn off my phone, and I trust.
I crawl into bed early, my thick, white duvet promising to cover me like a blanket of snow as I sleep. 'Tis the season ...
Photo by Chandler Cruttenden on Unsplash