Wintering in the Spring

Morning darklings,

Though it’s April, though the sky is brighter than it has been in months, though the air smells of grass and a medley of flowers as I walk through my neighborhood, though my backyard is becoming an oasis garden of fruits and vegetables and flowers and butterflies, I am wintering.

Wintering is a word I first heard by its truest definition, in regards to nature preparing for the long cold months ahead. Katherine May, in her book titled “Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times” discusses her take, as well as many others from cultures that live in the coldest of climates and disabled people who have had to pull away from the world in order to heal. Not to mention Sylvia Plath’s poem “Wintering”, which is broken down far better than I could ever hope to analyze it here.

But I find myself creating my own definition, as I often do. It’s a combination of thoughts, really. A little from one point-of-view, a little from another, just what feels true to me.

Currently, I’m being social. I’m planning readings, I’m seeing plays, I’m meeting new friends for tea. I’m also sicker than I have been in ages. Life, you see, has thrown me a fast and brutal curveball. It’s hit me right in my healing gut and thrown me back in progress. Stress and heartache aren’t good for the body, and they are even worse when you already have horrible stomach problems.

Slowly, I’m encouraging people come to my house. I’m existing in a space I can control. It’s good for others too. They have more options for tea than they do elsewhere, and I can make them more comfortable than places meant for the “every body” can.

Soon, encouraging will become insisting. To spend time with me will be to visit One-Sized Elizabeth at Grey Thoughts Gardens. I will go out for special occasions, to visit with friends that have no cars, and to see new places or museum exhibits, but otherwise, I will stay in my space, with my comfortable seating, my tea I can trust, my temperature control, my medicine and heating pads and bed.

This isn’t about being a hermit, it’s about wintering. It’s about protecting myself, healing, preparing for the work ahead of me (publishing, editing, writing, reading for the anthology, rinse and repeat; not to mention loving and laughing and enjoying my hours).

A few weeks ago, a friend came to spend the day chatting with me. All day, we laughed, we talked, we wrote for a little while. And the most remarkable thing happened. I ate solid food. I had chocolate chip cookies, a simple cake, cauliflower pasta with mozzarella cheese, and my usual crackers. None of it was blended. It felt so normal. I felt so normal. I ate slowly. But I ate.

Clarity arrived in the following day, when I was only a little swollen. I’d eaten six cookies, which I hadn’t realized, having as much fun as I was. If someone had asked me about eating six cookies before that day, before I leapt off the building and did it, I would have laughed. I would have assumed a hospital trip was inevitable. Instead, I was no more or less sick than if I’d had an extra blendie. It wasn’t the what, it was the how much. So I knew that friend was good for me, I knew spending time in a place I felt comfortable was good for me, I knew laughing and talking and honesty was good for me. Being seen and heard was good for me.

But I also saw what was bad for me. The stress of driving makes me swell, no matter how much I eat. Being bumped into by strangers on their way to the bathroom hurts my body for an untold amount of time. Drama makes my POTS worse. Talking in circles about negative topics for no reason but to stay in those feelings is wholly unpleasant. And all things end in my mid-section distended, my ribs subluxed, my back aching, my stomach not emptying, my intestines in knots, and me, hungry and wondering how much I should ignore the pain so I can have some milk.

Wintering will allow see me to a place of goodness.

Wintering will allow me to sleep without waking up to a rib rolling.

Wintering will allow to live in that space where eating isn’t magical, it’s what one does.

I have to pull back from meeting at coffee shops because it’s perfunctory to do such, from doing all the work, from going on social media entirely, from having debates rather than discussions, from giving more of myself than someone gives to me. I’ve been getting better at this over the years—the pulling back, the taking care of myself. But it’s so easy to start putting others first again. I’m a fixer. I’m an empath. I don’t like myself.

I won’t hide away in all of this. Isolating isn’t part of my healthy life. But I will save my resources for the harsh times of winter, as those don’t only come in December and January and February. They come in April and June and August too. They come for hours or days or months, and I have no recourse but to push through them. Wouldn’t it be nice if they were easier?

It seems no matter what I do, I am always grieving. The death of a loved one, the change of a meaningful friendship, the loss of autonomy due to a disabled body, more pain I can’t escape, a dictatorship that is already taking from me and those I love. In a way, we all grieve all the time. Some are better at compartmentalizing than others. Some have one thing to grieve rather than nine. It’s part of humanity.

How can anyone cope with so much?

We find love, friendships, hobbies, careers or jobs, learn emotional regulation skills.

I can move through the muck of grief that weighs heavy on my body like a death shroud, if only I winter.

question of the week

Does the thought of wintering for health resonate?

Until next time, harness the Little darknesses and embrace the Little things.