I don't want to hibernate

I just want to be a little slower and a lot more present this winter

I hope this newsletter finds you staring into space.

I hope this newsletter finds you tromping through deep woods with only birds and squirrels aware of your existence.

I hope this newsletter finds you wearing drawstring-waist pants, immobilized by the warm dog in your lap.

I hope this newsletter finds you moving as slowly as you’re called to move for the rest of the year.

It’s easy to blame capitalism for the bustle as November melts into December, and yes, the pressure to commerce and commodify is especially strong this time of year.

But also, in this season of trees reaching their bare, spindly limbs into the growing darkness, there is an innate pull within us toward light and movement, toward joy and celebration.

Photo by Karolina Badzmierowska on Unsplash

When the night swallows the day and so much of the life around us goes dormant, I gravitate to the people I love. Really, I want to smother them with my love. I want them to taste it in the ginger and lime I weave into my butternut squash soup. I want them to feel it in the snug softness of the hat I knitted them. I want them to hear it in my stories and songs.

Like a lot of us, I spend the darkest months of the year bobbing between frenetic gaiety and sensory deprivation. There’s so much to do and so many people to see, and I soon get overwhelmed and pull inside myself, not fully present in any of it.

This year, I’ve set an intention to move more slowly through winter. To pull back the reins a little when I can — to be mindful about which things I really need to do, and which could be dropped. To catch myself when I'm spinning and prevent the crash.

I’m hoping that if I seek out moments of stillness and grounding, I’ll be better positioned to absorb all of that laughter and brightness that feeds me.

This winter, I don’t want to miss the things that matter most to me.

I just need to figure out what they are.

There’s a lot of pressure as a parent to create a magical family culture around holidays. To keep doing things the way you’ve always done them as a comfort and gift to your offspring.

But this time of year is just as much about cuddling with my kids as it is about maintaining traditions.

There are many holiday expectations I’ve rejected outright, knowing from the get-go that they would be too much for me, like Elf on the Shelf, or sending an annual family holiday card or letter.

But there are so many other things we do, from the way we decorate to the foods we eat, that put pressure on me.

Sometimes the decorations feel like clutter, or they remind me of work still undone, like my third daughter’s stocking that still doesn’t have her name on it despite the fact that she’s now nine.

Photo by Krzysztof Niewolny on Unsplash

Probably the biggest pressure I feel around this time of year is to create an atmosphere of hygge— the blankets, the warm cups of tea and candles burning in the fireplace.

I mean, I do have all of those things in my house in abundance this time of year. But the way I picture them is all stark simplicity and beauty, like a simmer pot on an otherwise empty stove, or knitting in a still room, or stringing popcorn on a bare table top.

I have this image in my head of quiet and peace, and while my house is full of love and laughter, I have three kids and a dog and a rotating group of neighbors and friends stopping by — and the truth is I have to work hard to be a still person myself.

So one gift I’m giving myself this winter is to bring activity and imperfection to my daydreams. When I get the idea to brew a pot of tea, I can anticipate steaming mugs and blankets pulled under our feet, but I’ll need to include the puppy digging into the side of his bed, the school projects ongoing on the table, and the nine-year-old rolling around on her new hoverboard in the background.

Another gift will be putting aside things that don’t feel good. Maybe that means putting up fewer decorations because they very quickly turn to clutter in my subconscious. Maybe it means letting go of any image I had of my littlest’s stocking ever having her name on it. Or at least before she’s 15.

She still squeals when she sees it and claims it as her own. She’s still delighted to pull it down on Christmas morning and see what’s inside.

In 2020 and 2021, we didn’t get the kids’ pictures taken with Santa because of the pandemic. I assumed we would resume this essential December activity, but then we just didn’t, and it was fine. It turns out I don’t really need a picture of my kids sitting on a stranger’s red velveteen lap every winter to mark the passage of time or the season. It turns out they didn’t need it either.

This year, I’m going to look for other traditions that aren’t serving us anymore. Like maybe Christmas jammies. I love them, but my kids really don’t seem that excited about them, and they rarely wear them on Christmas morning anyway. They’d each love a new book instead.

One tradition I love is putting all of our winter picture books out on the shelves in our living room. With the last of my babies on her way to tween territory, I don’t know how much longer I can get away with reading to them about tomten and flying snowmen, so I plan to savor every second between those pages this year.

I also love pulling out our ornaments and remembering the story behind each one. But I’m often wiped after getting the tree and setting up the lights, so maybe we will spread our tree decorating over several days this year rather than treating it a task that needs to be done all at once. I kind of love the idea of spending a few days with an unadorned tree in our house, a few more with only its lights on, and a few more slowly building our story. We’ll get to drink more eggnog that way anyway.

I’m excited for new Christmas romance novels, watching old beloved movies like Last Holiday with my sister, Bridget Jones’ Diary with my friends, and Single All the Way and Muppet Christmas Carol with my kids.

This year my oldest requested we go to the Nutcracker, and I’m looking forward to dressing up and making a night of that.

I’m also planning to start a new tradition of a winter movie night with the kids’ friends. I’m thinking Little Women and gingerbread houses would be a fun combo. But realistically it’ll be Little Women and popcorn, and that’ll be great, too.

When I look back on my own childhood Christmases, I have so many happy memories, but one that sticks with me the most is my dad sitting in the quiet living room late into the evening staring at our tree.

Like me, my dad struggles with sitting still, with needing to be doing. But he looked so peaceful on that couch with the bright blues and reds reflected in his eyes.

You’ll find me staring at my tree in the evenings until late January. There will probably be a kid on a hoverboard in the background and a pile of unfolded laundry at my feet. There will be activity and imperfection and I will slow down and enjoy it.

Dear readers, I planned to offer audio versions of my posts for paid subscribers only, but Substack makes this feature too clunky at the moment, and I’m not happy with it.

Either I have to send paid subscribers a separate version of each post (splitting my reader comment sections), or if I include a paywall before the audio, it sends my free subscribers a “Preview Only” post, implies they have to subscribe to get more content, and prevents them from commenting.

The last thing I want to do is spam any of you, so I’ll be making my audio available to all until Substack figures out a way to make this more elegant. Thank you all so much for reading, and for your support!

XOXO, Shawna