Happy (Gregorian) New Year, Ramblers.
However or whenever you mark the turning of the year, I wish you well as you train your mind and muscle memory to write “2026” for the next few weeks.
When we left November, we were practising the art of slowing down and turning inward, with December offering the promise of light, gathering, and celebration. In the weeks that followed, winter made itself known in a more literal way. As I sat down to write the next instalment of Rambling Reads, the seasonal lurgy arrived uninvited and lingered far longer than planned. Doesn’t it always? I’m happy to say that everyone is now on the mend.
It would be easy to frame those weeks as an inconvenience rather than an inevitability, and, truthfully, I did. I resisted the interruption, mentally rehearsed all the reasons I couldn’t get sick, and spent a good portion of my holiday oscillating between obligation and frustration. Much of what Wintering had offered about limits, rest, and surrender flew out the window.
But as I returned to these chapters, something else emerged: recognition. A reminder that insight doesn’t exempt us from being human, and that remembering after the fact is often how learning takes root. It’s a familiar, liminal space at the heart of change: tentative, unfinished, and, perhaps, a bit messy.
So, I’m not writing this beneath a twinkling Christmas tree in mid-December, cup of tea in hand, steeped in festive contemplation. Instead, I’m inviting myself back into the spirit of the season a little later than planned, finding what light I can in a mug of veggie broth, and turning again to Katherine May’s reflections on midwinter, illumination, and quiet revelation.
I may have accidentally stumbled upon the point.
Light
This chapter continues to explore contradictions, most notably the resonant harmony of darkness and light. Light is considered alongside the indisputable human need for mental and physical well-being. We easily accept the impact of the retreating sun on woodland creatures, so the author is puzzled by the collective astonishment that seasonal changes [ alongside the unchanging demands of the modern world ] affect us as humans. Darkness threads through seemingly disparate stories: from one person’s experience of seasonal affective disorder to a grieving 17th-century poet to the archetype of sainthood. A twin thematic thread ties these narratives together: in the darkest moments, our human instinct is to light a candle.
We don’t need to resist or banish the dark, nor compound misery with fear; a glowing light can gently guide the way.
My job was to do nothing but listen, and feel, and contemplate, and it was a liberation. . . I gained something new: a sense of welcome insignificance amid a congregation of people; a lifting of the obligation to endlessly do, if just for an hour; a gentle truce with myself. I spent most of that time on the verge of tears. I only needed to open up that tiny space to see how black it all was . . . I didn’t dance back up the aisle, having miraculously found my way. But she brought a little light. Just enough to see by.
May’s description of her role as a “welcome stranger” in a Swedish Church in Marylebone summarises how juxtaposition is a natural state of being, as she is comforted by her experience of discomfort.
Midwinter
It’s perhaps no surprise, then, that the chapter that resonated most with me unfolds at midwinter: the moment when light begins, almost imperceptibly, to return. In Midwinter, Katherine recounts the story of her family’s trip to Stonehenge for the winter solstice. I admire the energy she summons to plan outings and venture out while in a deep state of rest. It’s an important reminder that rest is not always passive, and that my admiration of her courage is also a reflection of my own capacity and desires. But I digress.
As she moves through the constellation of events that shape her experience, May intentionally pauses to consider meaning-making itself. Humans have been making meaning of existence since the dawn of time; here, we need look no further than Salisbury to see how our ancestors marked both the height of summer and the depths of winter with reverence. While we continue to try to make sense of the world around us through religion, science, and philosophy, the author rightly wonders:
Have we really got so far into the realm of electric light and central heating that the rhythm of the year is irrelevant to us, and we no longer even want to notice the point at which the night starts getting shorter again?
Have we lost the ability to appreciate a moment that doesn’t arrive in fanfare, a dopamine spike, or, conversely, pain? Since when did a to-do list become more integral to our survival than our wellbeing? Than our souls?
The closing pages of the chapter contemplate prayer as both concept and verb. Prayer, like storytelling, is another way we make meaning. In some traditions, it is a supplication for intercession; in others, a celebration, meditation, dance, communal gathering, or attention to breath. However we define it, prayer functions as a ritual that often brings a sense of wonder and belonging in the world.
If we resist the instinct to endure those darkest moments alone, we might even make the opportunity to share the burden, and to let a little light in.
Epiphany
The epiphany in this chapter is not about light returning, but about learning how to perceive it. In Wintering, Katherine May recognises that she has been listening, but not quite hearing properly. When she begins to truly absorb the sounds of her life, she realises that happiness and sadness are not accidental states. They are skills to be practised, shaped by the way we attend to the world.
It’s perhaps a universal experience that epiphany arrives through both observation and experience, but is more accessible through the former. When her son struggles within an education system shaped by the last two centuries, she listens. Not only to her son, but to the sensations of resistance in her body. The mixed messaging and relentless pressure about his development, his future, and his tolerance swirl around her until she lands on a steadying realisation:
Happiness is the greatest skill we’ll ever learn: it is not a part of ourselves that should be hived off into a dark corner, the shameful territory of the willfully naive. Happiness is our potential . . .
As you might expect, May doesn’t stop at that ellipsis. She carries the insight further: “if happiness is a skill, then sadness is too”. Like many emotions and sensations, sadness is often something we are encouraged to suppress or outgrow. Sometimes, we do need to push on in order to survive. In childhood, especially, we lack control and a sense of agency; We naturally copy what surrounds us and look to trusted adults for cues. If those adults are well practised at bypassing their inner experience, what, then, is passed to the next generation?
It follows that one of many unspoken assignments of adulthood is to examine the ways we learned to ignore ourselves: the shadows and the softness of human experience. As May writes, “Wintering is a moment of intuition, our true needs felt as keenly as a knife."
This is not a scathing indictment of modern life or contemporary education. Rather, it is an acknowledgement of patterns that have become normal: a potential rite of passage in the lifelong pursuit of wisdom. When May describes teaching her son to “winter”, some might mistake it for avoidance. Yet what actually unfolds is transformation: reading, working, problem-solving, tolerating change, embracing change, empathy, community, humility, and acceptance. No two people will winter the same way, but we can learn from one another’s stories.
The chapter closes with a meditation on change: small, imperceptible shifts allow us to make meaning in gentler, more supportive ways. The days between Christmas and the New Year feel different to the author, not because the calendar demands it, but because of the simple, intentional act of paying attention:
It would have happened either way, with or without our noticing, but this way gives us the fleeting impression that we have seized control, not of the seasons, but of our response to them.
And so, here we are: well past midwinter with the days stretching noticeably longer. This reflection may have arrived later than planned, but perhaps that, too, is its own small practice. Wintering rarely unfolds on schedule. Light returns slowly. Attention sharpens gradually. And if happiness and sadness are skills to be practised, then so is patience with the seasons, with our growth, and with ourselves.
Next time, we’ll begin the New Year with a new perspective because even stick season [ thank you, Noah Kahan ] carries the promise of change.
Until then, take good care as you pause, ponder, and wander.
See you on the next page,
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Note: Rambling Reads is a reflective reading series and is not a substitute for therapy or medical support. This is a space where my love of stories meets my work in understanding them.
Cultivating Community: Whenever possible, I encourage borrowing books from your local library or a friend. If you’d like to keep a copy on your shelf while supporting independent bookstores, you can use my affiliate links to Bookshop.org to help keep this ramble going.
