Reflection on Winter

In the Depths

Fields and streets rest under a pale sky, and the air feels clear and sharp, as if it has been washed clean. Frost settles gently on branches and roofs, and every sound seems softened, held back by the cold.

The days are short, the light scarce, and life outside seems almost paused. There is little movement, little visible growth, yet nothing feels empty. Beneath the stillness, something holds.

I wake early, half past five, four hours before sunrise. The house is dark. Candles are lit. A book, a warm drink in my hands. Silence. The rooms are cold, untouched by the day.

Outside, I run through the forest. The ground is frozen. On a clearing, a deer stands still, framed by frost and breath. The first light appears in the sky, pale and distant, slowly blending with the moon before it disappears.

Winter food is heavy, grounding. It warms and nourishes me through the darkness. The house fills with scent. Cooking, a way of supporting the body when the world offers little warmth.

It is dark most of the time. There is less life visible outside, fewer sounds, fewer signs of movement. And yet there is energy. The cold carries strength. It sharpens perception, brings focus, strips away excess. The air feels clean, almost demanding attention.

In this season, I sense time differently. Everything slows, but nothing stops. Beneath the surface, something gathers. Rest is not absence, it is preparation.

I hear a call in the distance. Quiet, but unmistakable. Soon, it will begin again.