Winter Rest, Compression, and Expansion
Since moving back to New York last month, I’ve felt this strong desire to be more like the trees and the squirrels, who, right now in winter, are simply resting. This city is fast and buzzing as always, but right now it feels wholly unnatural. There is a contrast between the city’s relentless pace and the natural rhythm of winter.
As the earth rests in its winter slumber, I make an effort to indulge in the luxury of slowness. It’s my way of pushing back against this fast-paced environment I live in. Recently I began crocheting again. The repetitive act of weaving loops of yarn is soothing, and I fall into a calming rhythm that slowly, steadily dissolves the tension in my mind.
Winter is a time of rest. I’ve come to realize that winter is not a time of doing–it’s a time of being. The explosion of flowers in spring is only due to the profuse, total rest that the plants complete in winter. The long and cold nights are an invitation to turn inwards for respite, to stand still like the bare trees or curl up like the squirrel in its den. You might find that simply letting yourself rest will assuage those mysterious forces that might be stopping you from doing right now. This is the time of year to read a book by the fire, go for a long, slow walk in the forest, and simmer a hearty soup for hours on the stove. You can practice this slowness anywhere. At the grocery store, for example, take time to admire each fruit you pick up. Browse the cheese section and find the perfect accompaniment for your wine. This is not the time to rush.
Though our modern world is unaccustomed to winter slumber, not all humans have forgotten. Until recently, Inuit communities living above the Arctic Circle slept for fourteen hours per day in winter. In Pskov, in northwest Russia, the first snowfall signals to families to gather around the fire and go to sleep. They wake up once every day to eat bread, and go back to sleep again. This winter hibernation is called lotska, and was mainly done by peasants who didn’t have enough food to eat. But I can’t help but notice how they step into the natural rhythm of the earth by embracing this calling to sleep.
While I can’t sleep to this extent, I make a mindful effort each day to slow down. I’ve started embracing the Danish philosophy of hygge, essentially an environment of coziness and contentment. I have a nightly ritual where I light a bunch of candles, burn my favorite incense, and put away all of my devices. I then read a book in bed, and let that feeling of contentment wash over me.
My days are often busy and overstimulating: rushing to class on the cramped subway, trying to fit in a run before it gets too dark. At the end of the day, I return home in a state of discohesion. I often find that my mind continues to race, long after I want it to. But when I light the candles and turn off all the other lights, the sense of relief is sudden.
This small ritual of comfort helps me reclaim a sense of peace, but it also highlights that much of the modern world resists slowness. My effort to create a cozy space of restoration is to counterbalance the sense of compression I often feel in New York. My apartment is face-to-face with a large office building in Midtown. Through its large windows I observe the expanse of cubicles that are bathed in a fluorescent glow. The cubicle workers sit at their desks all day, intensely staring at monitors while wearing headsets. Promptly at noon, the workers disappear from my view, and return an hour later. At 5 PM, they excitedly hurry out of the building. Though I observe the office workers every day, I know very little about them. I know enough, however, to realize that a job like that is my nightmare. When I look out my window, I feel a sense of compression, of implosion. I feel my skull crushing inwards.
The opposite of compression is expansion. When I went with my class to the International Center of Photography, and spoke to the senior curator who is passionate about what she does, I felt a sense of expansion. I left the gallery feeling inspired and uplifted. I wanted to live in this sense of expansion.
I can’t control my external environment as easily as I can my internal one. When faced with the view from my apartment, the question becomes how I can create the sense of expansion in an environment of compression. Simple efforts are surprisingly effective. I don’t need to move out of my apartment to change my environment. I lined my windowsill with potted plants to visually disrupt the view outside. I adorned my bedroom with objects that are expansive to me: my favorite books, crystals, burning incense. When that feeling of compression emerges, I shift my attention to these objects that remind me of the expansiveness that exists within me. I fortify my outer boundary so that nothing can crush it.
Winter strips everything down to its most essential elements. Without leaves on my favorite oak in Central Park, I admire the sculptural form of its trunk and branches. I notice how the trunk is the essence of the tree; the leaves in summer are sustained by the water carried up its powerful core. In the same way, winter reveals what truly sustains us.
By embracing stillness and creating small spaces for expansion, we step closer to balance—wherever we are.
Love and light,
Om
