Blooming through the Winter Blues

Reflections on a blustery week and a poem for you

It’s very firmly fall in Seattle, and the Texan in me is withering slightly, lethargic under weight of heavy gray skies and the cloak of 4pm sunsets. I have to be more intentional than ever with my time, making sure to get outside in the morning, even before sunrise, for some fresh air and movement. Reptilian in my sunbathing pursuits, I bask in the artificial light from my happy lamp, uncomfortably aware that it is not the real thing, hoping it’s good enough to tithe me over until brighter months. Fatigue and anxiety roll in hormone-fueled waves, exacerbated by a flummoxed circadian clock.

Though I’d happily cash in a summer day had I the chips for it, I don’t feel the need to label any of this as bad. Instead, it feels like an opportunity for observation (a writer’s dream!). I notice my energy ebbing and flowing and adjust my expectations accordingly; this has taken some time, and I’m still working on it. I prioritize rest and community and healthy movement, taking note of how I feel each day.

Recently, I’ve had a couple of objectively pedestrian yet meaningful connections. One was an honest and reflective conversation about shame. Another was a playful, comedic spar. I came away from these conversations feeling inspired, creative, reflective - like I wanted to unabashedly expose the thoughts, qualities, and experiences I’m afraid others won’t understand as I simultaneously lean into the things that make me feel bright.

I’ve been holding this, and more, in my head this week and finding integration particularly through walking and yoga. It’s been awhile since a poem came to me, but this one did, on a blustery day with a gap in the rain. I recommend listening to the audio version, as it was written to be spoken word, but consume in whatever way feels most accessible and organic to you. Read on below.

The below-mentioned, brave little sprout

Sometimes I want to walk forever and forget the panicky part of my mind at home, that nervous accountant. With exacting, and overreacting logic, she says, “Well, we can’t be 100% certain you don’t have some deadly disease,” and “Shouldn’t you be more stressed right now?” 

Sometimes I want to walk forever and feel, really feel, each footstep on the earth. Eventually I’ll stop biting my cheek and let the wind bite my face instead, sharp and cold. My nose and cheeks blush with the sting. 

Back home, a new monstera leaf is tightly wound, hugging itself in its nascency, pale, not yet green with age or envy. I want to whisper to it, tell it how tender and fleeting these early days are. 

But God, how I want it to bloom. 

How I want to point to it at dinner parties and say, “Look at my beautiful plant that I grew, that I nourished in the dark and cold, that trusts me enough to unfurl in this unlikely season.” 

And I wonder if it’s chosen wrong, if it picked a hopeful, horribly miscalculated moment to breach from its sister’s stem, born to darkness and breadcrumbs from a winter sun that is raising another little plant somewhere else. 

What business does the sun have growing plant babies somewhere warmer and kinder? What scented promise lured it there, boasting jewel tones and bird song and barbecue? When my sprout is born a giraffe, spindly and uncertain, close under shadow of its elders? 

I want to whisper to my plant, love aching in my chest, “Only a rebel would choose to be born at a time like this. And to be raising a rebel, I must be doing something right.”

So let the wind sap the moisture from my eyes. Let it have my racing thoughts, too; take them wherever wind takes leaflets and balloons and car-door napkins. For my darling leaf will unfurl, and I will keep walking, and walking, and walking.

Thanks, as always, for being here. Just the fact that you read this is meaningful, and I extend a warm note of gratitude to you on this Thanksgiving week.