Dividing the Winter into Microseasons

Microseason No. 66, January 1-5

The darker, colder days of winter pose a special challenge to us in the northern hemisphere. But rather than thinking about this season as one long, cold, dark slog of time, I find it energizing to follow the ancient practice of dividing the wintertime into 12 short microseasons, each lasting just 5 days.

There’s a surprising abundance of fungi right now.

Of course, there may be days when we feel the pull to hibernate indoors, and I feel that too. This is not a dead time of loss, but a restful one of dreaming and making art from those dreams.

I think about winter’s microseasons as a series of invitingly small, blank canvases on which to create.

I’m excited to begin working on a new project this winter, which will be a shift away from on-screen writing, moving more into creating a physical book to catalog my journey through the microseasons. I’m assembling a tool kit now.

The Microseason New Year begins on February 4th. I’ll still be checking in here from time to time as things progress, and you can see what I’m making.

a few essentials for my project

Even on a cold day, I urge you to dress warmly and take a walk outdoors. What does this day want to show you?

The cold air has created an ice sculpture on the creek overnight. I think it looks like frozen angel wings.

I try not to fear or resist the weather, but to marvel at the human body’s ability to work with the cold .

When I’m walking outside, I’m not focusing on the loss of warmth. Instead, I shift to feeling the warmth now coming from the inside—I breathe in the sharp cold and exhale something new.

I’m thankful for my body’s ability to create a warm blend of carbon dioxide that nourishes the plants and trees around me.

Wild mosses are thriving now in the lush, damp cold.

Today, I heard someone bemoaning the fact that humans are never quite satisfied. No matter how much we have, we’re never completely full of happiness, or empty of desire. I don’t think this is anything that needs to be fixed. It is a beautifully alive way to feel: humans are seasonal creatures with ever-changing, microseasonal cravings. We live on a planet in continuous motion. No wonder we are never satisfied—we must continually adapt.

The secret is to be here, right now, awake to what you feel. Noticing the poetry of the brief seasons helps us to remain in the present, and to savor its gifts to us. We can surrender ruminations about the past and worries about the future, to see the goodness and love of the present moment shining through.

What do you want? What are you craving consciously or unconsciously in your body and in your spirit? Is there a way to honor this need?

There is great truth and beauty in impermanence. One day, this wild ride will end for each of us. Surely, pausing to appreciate the day is a poetic way to be more alive while we can.

The labyrinth at Brumley Forest just before sunset.

Most people have the opposite habit: they complain about the weather. Endlessly. It’s either too hot or too cold. Too wet or too dry. But to savor each small season uniquely—unconditionally—trains us in a loving way to be more alive.

It might also teach us how to see one another’s quirks and special abilities as love-worthy. We can meet others exactly where they are today, much the same way we meet each new season. With compassion and acceptance.

Think of what it means to be here together—the wonder of it! I try to take this mindset into my clinical day. I love to work from a place of compassion and care.

It’s my hope that we might also extend this same unconditional acceptance and love to ourselves every day. Imagine what could be done with all that momentum!

A small winter thought for you:

I go where I love

and where I am loved,

into the snow.

⌘

From The Flowering of the Rod by Hilda Doolittle

I’ll see you in the next microseason,

—Ann

Killian wants to show you his warm winter sweater.