Eight Weeks Behind, But Right on Time

What winter, instinct, and Skye taught me about rest

It’s been a while! It has taken me over 10 weeks to write my fortnightly newsletter, so I guess I’m almost exactly two months behind.

I’ve been thinking about why I just stopped everything for the winter and how unintentional it was in so many ways. I intended to slow down, to be with Rob on the mainland and see my boys and Margot over the winter. What I didn’t expect was to struggle so much physically that I barely moved, but a new bout of Covid had a lot to answer for. So I began picking it apart, really thinking about what happens when we push against our natural cycles and the rhythm of the seasons.

I watch Skye and her non-negotiables. She stretches upwards and then downwards, extremely slowly, every time she gets up. She cares very little that the door is wide open and I’m standing there freezing whilst the wind whips into the house, waiting for the stretching to finish so she will go out to pee. If she has excess energy, she spins it out. If she’s overstimulated, she stuffs a toy into her mouth and chews slowly on it, or gnaws on a bone to calm her nervous system. She often stops playing very suddenly and takes herself off for time alone and a very long sleep when she knows she’s tired. She’s a sun worshipper, seeking out the sunny spots wherever they appear.

She knows exactly what her body needs and prioritises it without question.

Granted, she doesn’t have to earn a living, so she does have some advantages over most of us.

Humans, on the other hand, seem to be losing these instincts. As the world speeds up, our connection to what we need slows down.

For many years, we lived with the rhythm of the seasons, waking with the sun, slowing in winter. But electricity, screens, productivity, and constant connectivity have pulled us away from that. Animals hibernate. Plants slow. Yet we expect ourselves to maintain the same pace, motivation, and output all year round.

I used to have a different work pattern that allowed for this more easily. Weddings in the summer, winters off to rest, eat well and exercise, and a visit to India in January for some sun and wellbeing. In recent years, I’ve struggled more with the dark days. It isn’t sadness, but as though my body just doesn’t like the lack of light, and even though I quite enjoy cosy evenings, twinkly lights and candles in the winter months, my physical body doesn’t agree

I think instinctively winter invites stillness and asks us to turn inward and rest, and learning to respond as best we can, given our life circumstances, is the most we can do.

I wonder whether I am in fact eight weeks behind, or whether my wintering has been exactly what I needed to emerge and feel creative again.

Quiet Moment on the beach

I came back to the island after a couple of months away and was greeted by the sun. As I strolled across the dunes, my heart lifted at the sight of the beach, sparkling and welcoming me home. The sand had shifted since I was last there, blanketing itself over rocks that had once been so familiar, shaping itself into ridges and ripples carved by the winter winds and untouched by footprints.

Only birdprints, golden ripples and shells left with wind-blasted sand ridges behind them. It felt like such a privilege to be there, an untouched beach as though I was the first person to see it.

I sank down against the rocks and turned my face to the sun. There was such a power to it that I felt no desire to do anything else. I often carry a bag of notebooks, sketchbooks, and pens when I go out, but they stayed untouched.

I had just arrived home and opened a package from Maureen Du Preez containing an oil she had created ( cold-pressed jojoba oil infused with blue lotus flowers), and I instinctively popped it into my bag. As I sat there, I opened it and treated myself to the feeling of the oil on my hands and face before once again sitting back and resting.

The rocks I rested on are carved with colours ranging from beige to red, with ridges, patterns, and tones joining together, forming small hollows for the sand to settle. Where they once wept with rain, the sun now shone, and I felt a sense of spirit and time all around me, passing through the breeze, protected and warm.

The snowy tops were in sight, and a sudden threat of rain reminded me that summer wasn’t here just yet. I strolled back, briefly regretting leaving my camera behind, but enjoying the simplicity and lightness of using my phone instead. I decided I would return with my camera, but inevitably, that day was unique. When I did go back, the same scenes were filled with footprints and dog paw prints.

It’s a lesson I seem to learn repeatedly: some days are simply enough as they are.

Until next time - thanks for reading and sending love out to anyone who needs it right now, Margaret xx