Even in the quiet of winter, there’s a pull to plan, to anticipate, to look ahead. While my garden sleeps beneath the snow, I find myself sketching next season’s beds, ordering seeds, and imagining the moment when seedlings will push up through soil under the glow of grow lights. There’s excitement in that imagining, and a touch of impatience, too.
I miss summer at this time of year. I miss warm evenings, full gardens, and the ease of stepping outside without layers. Planning for what’s ahead brings hope, but it can also create a subtle restlessness, a feeling of wanting to arrive somewhere before the season allows it. Nature, however, doesn’t share that urgency.
Outside, winter moves at its own unhurried pace. Snow falls, settles, and stays. Light returns slowly, almost unnoticed from one day to the next. The garden rests, not because it has fallen behind, but because this is what the season requires. Nothing is being rushed, and nothing is being wasted.
There’s a quiet reminder here for me. Anticipation has its place, but so does attention. While it’s natural to look forward to what’s coming, there is also something grounding about pausing long enough to notice what is already here—the stillness, the cold air, the muted landscape doing its winter work. Today, it might be enough to slow down for a moment, notice one small detail of the season, and feel a simple sense of gratitude for the time we’re in now.
