THE GIFTS OF WINTER PRESENT
WRITTEN BY EMMA KIRSOPP
The world turns on its axis, the days shorten and it rains. And rains. Wintertime manifests in a flurry of themed lunch deals and decongestants, all designed to keep us on the move throughout the season’s maladies of flu and cancelled transport. Propped up by this heady mix of sugar and pharmaceuticals, we ‘battle on’. After all winter is simply an inconvenient backdrop to our hyper-scheduled calendar.
However, once the transient distractions of the festive season are over and the icicle LEDs are shelved alongside cranberry chutneys, we can be sure that the coldest months still await us, stretching endlessly toward the impossible horizon of spring.
I am commencing my seventh winter here in the UK. Having spent most of my life in the southern hemisphere, I am yet to acclimate to the dark mornings, damp feet and constantly running nose. Still unable to trust my feet on the ice that lurks surreptitiously on footpaths.
So, This year I plan to do more than simply survive the ever-lengthening nights. I need a new outlook, to be less caught up in those other days of easy weather and to find a perspective that allows me to be present and make peace with winter and recognise the curious gifts that it brings.
Our lives are spent busily shaping the environment to suit our needs and wants, forgetting that it is the environment that in fact shapes us. Should we care to pay attention, the very landscape prepares each community, human and non-human alike, for the coming seasons. As we head into winter, even the light, now so late to arrive, begins its day wrapped in mist.
First to notice this change are the trees. They respond to the loss of their nourishing sunlight by denuding themselves of their leaves, the very organs that, not too long ago, were vital for their survival. Absorbing and storing their remaining sugars, the trees commence their dormancy process, a kind of hibernation where they will sustain themselves until the light returns and they can feed again.
This dormancy state is essential for their health and being deprived of this process (such as in an artificial environment) can dramatically reduce their lifespan.
Like the trees, perhaps my own health depends on accepting a state of dormancy. When the season’s parties are counted-down and the festive celebrations have finished, just as the trees have shed their leaves, I too can shed those things that no longer nourish me by turning away from the outcome-focused drive toward continual growth.
Our own human bodies also answer to the new darkness by entering a kind of hibernation state. The Cleveland Clinic states that ‘We experience an annual cycle of insulin resistance that prepares us for the lean months too, one (that for most of us) reverses back to an insulin-sensitive state around late winter/early spring to get ready for summer and an abundance of food’ (Hatipoglu, 2015).
The key to managing this physical change is not found in some Amazonian berry or other exotic compound, it lies before us in the humble ingredients that make up the trimmings on our Christmas dinner. The winter produce that we take for granted plays an important role in protecting us against the ravages of seasonal indulgences.
For example, red cabbage contains specific antioxidants that have been linked to the potential to reduce the risk of heart disease. Brussels sprouts provide, within their tightly curled heads, fibre and alpha-lipoic acid, which have both been proven to help keep blood sugar levels stable.
Carrots and parsnips respond to cold temperatures by converting their starches into sugars to prevent the water in their cells from freezing. Thus, becoming sweeter. The vitamin A in carrots is important for immune function, while the high soluble-fibre content of parsnips can help slow the absorption of sugars into the bloodstream. (Kubala 2017).
By accepting the season’s nourishment for both body and mind and using this time to let go of that which does not serve me, I too can make room for retreat and review, trusting in my ability to sustain myself without the futile battle against the inevitable winter.
Winter makes different demands of us. It asks that we draw on our reserves and to understand that certain needs are not met in sweet indulgences and pharmaceuticals, rather by going outside into the quiet evenings, noticing the way the moon still lights the dark sky or how the air tastes after cold rain. I will accept the season’s gifts, learning to be more open to the dark because, who knows, the light may fall all the more brightly in spring.