Midwinter
When you hear the word ‘winter’, what comes to mind?
A prompt from Beth Kempton’s Winter Writing Sanctuary, which I signed up for last year and then never finished. Perhaps because I was still battling with my writing perfectionist at that time, and the way the prompts were set out made me feel I needed to do each of them in order and in the allotted space. I am still seeking rapprochement with my perfectionist part, but she seems to have quieted down about this tendency now - at least, a year of writing has taught me to approach a prompt sheet more flexibly, to go where the spirit wanders and not force myself into a little grey box.
Winter offers this flexibility too. The creative power of restraint - when options are limited or curtailed by the very real restriction of daylight, we have to sit with ourselves more, and accept workarounds. Perfect isn’t possible in winter. The walk will be cold/wet/muddy/icy/slushy. The veg bag will be full of roots. The sky will be dark in the morning, and again from mid-afternoon. I like the turning in that this season forces on us, and I dislike the way that too much darkness makes me feel. I like winter’s potential for new discoveries, and I dislike my own tendency to fill every daylight hour with activity so that in summer I over-run myself and forget…
Lights in darkness:
fairy lights - on the bows of a tree in our neighbour’s garden; on the Christmas tree in my paternal grandmother’s dining room which was always cold and smelt of polish because she only used it once a year; strung around the mantlepiece now above a gas fire I haven’t turned on because the weather is wierdly mild.
candlelight - the time I put a candle in a glass ramekin from some posh puddings and rested it on the end of the bath where it exploded when the flame burned down to the rim; during power cuts in the kitchen in the ‘90s, always tapers stuck in old wine bottles which gave almost no light but made my father childishly happy; the candles my clients gave me for Christmas.
moonlight - the time I woke up at 4am and the whole room was lit up with moonlight like a pale white streetlight had turned on outside the window - I could see all the way to the woods at the top of the hill it was so bright, and I had an urge to put on my wellies and go outside to see if Tom’s Midnight Garden had come to Wiltshire, or maybe the Children of Green Knowe and St Christopher would be standing under the trees waiting for me.
firelight - the smell of the logs burning in the grate, sitting as close as I could without singing my back, scraping the ashes in the evening like Grandfather showed me and lifting the fire guard with the loose wires at the top in front of the stone fireplace, which took effort because it was heavy. Here I could stay for hours and hours, pages and pages. So many conversations so many memories so powerful the resonance of that great, brick lined space with one solid beam holding it up and the wood smoke filling my hair.
lamplight - pools of light to illuminate reading, quiet puddles where each person finds a corner for themselves, the dimness when you lift your eyes from a bright page and realise the whole room has darkened around you…
Winter memories return me to a sense of the possible and the permissable. That it is ok to sit and read, to breathe in woodsmoke, to remember a loved one and be glad she existed. We connect with former selves here, finding seeds of an authenticity we might neglect or reject in adulthood. I have good memories of childhood Christmases because the extended family were usually jolly and well-behaved, old squabbles and misbehaviour put to rest for a while, and because (of course) it meant I wasn’t at school. I was usually the only child in the house - my birth fell between my much older and much younger cousins - so it was me and a lot of adults and a huge pile of books to keep me occupied, plus, of course, the undivided love of a grandmother I adored. There is a safety in my memories of the winter break that I know isn’t there for everyone, but I am glad to have these reminders of quietness and being left alone and feeling that everything was safe and contained for a while. For a long time I thought there wasn’t any place for that sensitive only child in this modern world, but I am starting to see her fingerprints whenever I come to write.
If you enjoy my writing or would like to find more support for your own, why not join me once a month for a two hour writing retreat? The Slow Writers Club meets monthly on the first Thursday at 7pm UK time to provide a gentle, supportive space to inspire, encourage, and resource your writing practice. We begin with writing prompts, then move into discussion and coaching. After a break we co-write our own projects then come together again to share words and plans for the month. You can find out more and subscribe to The Slow Writers Club here. I hope to write with you there soon.