Most winter mornings start the same way. I pull on my boots, call two of the five dogs (there is a daily order of who goes out first and they know), and we head into the garden and fields while the light is still soft and generous. The daylight hours are brief this time of year, almost comically so, but I’ve come to see that as a kindness. Winter keeps me from doing too much all at once. It reminds me there is only so much tidying, trimming, dreaming, and puttering to do before the sun drops low and nudges us back toward warmth.
But oh, how satisfying those moments are. I clean edges. I tug out what’s finished. I pause, often, just to breathe in what remains. Winter slows the garden, yes, but it sharpens my attention in a way no other season can.
The lavender from this year’s harvest is thinning now, growing lighter in color and softer in scent. A few bundles remain, loyal as ever. They have worked hard through all the seasons, tucked into drawers, slipped into gifts, and steeped into tiny daily rituals that make an ordinary Tuesday feel intentional. Their presence is quieter now, but perhaps that is why it feels so grounding.
This, right here, is the in-between season, my favorite quiet secret.
While the garden rests under its gray knit blanket, my mind refuses to. Winter is when next year’s lavender truly begins. It starts quietly in the fields, along the paths, in messy notebooks, and in tiny containers of hopeful seeds. I sketch wildly, erase half of it, rethink everything, then sketch again. I fuss over spacing and airflow and which beds want a year off. I picture how the lavender rows will look in July sun, even as I stand here in wool socks.
It is also when I choose the rest of what will grow. Flowers for wreaths, dried bouquets, and the fresh summer bunches that make their way into grateful hands. I think about texture and color, about which blooms will hold their shape, which will dry beautifully, and which will simply make someone smile the moment they see them. Everything begins here in winter, with seed packets, coffee rings on the table, and pure, unpressured imagination.
Inside, the rhythm shifts. Fires crackle. Candles glow. Books pile beside my chair, some practical, some luxurious, all waiting patiently. Winter reading is slow and indulgent, the way the season itself moves.
This time of year holds the full thread, both ends of it. The last of what the garden offered and the shimmering anticipation of what comes next. Lavender on the table. Seeds in envelopes. Smoke curling from the chimney while the soil rests and readies itself.
Winter may not give me much to hold in my hands, but it gives me clarity. It gives me time. And it gives me the deep pleasure of anticipation.
Soon enough, the days will stretch, the light will linger, and those winter dreams will call for boots, gloves, and a shovel or two.
But for now, I am perfectly content in this in-between place. Lavender nearby, dogs asleep, candles flickering, and the fire humming its low winter song.