Wintering

Desert Willow in Bloom

We planted a new tree in our front yard this fall—a desert willow. At the first hint of cold weather, the willow discarded all its leaves, a common practice in deciduous trees to conserve their energy for important things.

Like surviving the change of seasons.

Our tree has entered a season of dormancy, a necessary rhythm in the natural order of creation.

A time of waiting. Of rest. Of hibernation.

Wintering.

Desert Willow at Veterans Oasis Park in Winter

In hopes to increase the lengths of growing seasons, scientists have experimented with trees. By bringing the trees inside with artificial light and heat, they have attempted to trick the tree into skipping dormancy. The experiments worked, but to the detriment of the trees. The lack of rest seemed okay in the short haul, but the lifespan of the tree was drastically shortened without the natural rhythm of rest.

We can learn from the trees.

Too often we expect ourselves to be in a constant state of spring, budding forth with new life. New ideas. New energy.

Always blooming. Always productive. Always moving.

Wintering reminds us of the importance of rest. Of stepping back. Of reevaluating.

In the deep work of winter, things are still happening.

“In the dead of winter one of my symbols [of hope] is a barren tree…

those quiet bare branches hold the magnificent potential of life.

It seems almost impossible that there could be so much green in them.”

“Yet, all winter the buds wait for the warmth of spring to open them.

When I walk among the winter trees I am consoled and filled with hope.”

Joyce Rupp in Can I Have this Dance?

Wintering is a time for our own deep work.

After three days of winter rain, Mollie and I headed to Veteran’s Oasis Park—a welcome retreat after so many hours inside. The desert thrummed a rain dance—not in a petition for moisture to come, but in a glorious celebration of gratitude for the blessing of three soaking days.

After hunkering down over seventy-two hours, all the critters ventured out to try their moves—from timid wallflowers to boisterous freestylers. Jackrabbits, cottontails, roadrunners, and quail tapped their feet to the rhythm. Hummingbirds, hawks, towhees, sparrows, and doves fluffed out their feathers and joined the chorus line. A lone squirrel climbed on a fence post as the self-proclaimed DJ.

Drops glistened from the prickly pear cactus as the creosote bush released the fragrance we all call Ode to Desert Rain.

After an hour of walking in the morning mist, I felt rejuvenated and ready to return to a writing project. The walk had not depleted my brain reserves but had restored them, a habit mentioned in the book, Deep Work: Rules for Focused Success in a Distracted World by Cal Newport. In the hurried and interruptive culture in which we all live, it can be difficult to develop the habits for our brains to focus.

Recognizing that we all have finite brain reserves each day for deep work, I am in the process of evaluating commitments and prioritizing time, both professionally and personally. As someone who struggles with multi-tasking fatigue, I found some of the strategies in the book helpful. And hopeful.

And in all my list making and commitments, I need to also include restorative breaks, like walking. (Mollie agrees.)

Many historical deep thinkers were known for the habit of walking to help keep their minds clear. That list includes Aristotle, Charles Dickens, Henry David Thoreau, Virginia Woolf, Albert Einstein, and Friedrich Nietzsche according to an article, “Why Intelligent Minds Take Their Brains for Long Walks,” by Thomas Oppong.

“The moment my legs begin to move, my thoughts begin to flow.”

—Henry David Thoreau

“If I could not walk far and fast, I think I should just explode and perish.”

—Charles Dickens who sometimes walked 20 miles after his morning writing ritual.

In the deep work of wintering, I pray you discover ways to do your own deep work AND find ways to refresh your soul (and your brain) as you do.