In which I am learn about the process of wintering

This week I started listening to the audio recording of a memoir called Wintering by Katherine May. It is an extraordinary book full of wisdom, pain, humor, and a willingness to face hard truths head on no matter how uncomfortable the process may be. I have an enormous amount of respect for this author, who is new to me.

   In the book, the Katherine May explores the idea of wintering. This is not just the process of getting through an actual winter, as in the season, but also the winters that come into our lives occasionally, or for some of us on a regular basis. These are events that turn our lives upside down, and that require us to take a pause, reflect, and to heal if necessary. The problem is that our society, for the most part, ignores not only the seasonal winter and it’s message of quiet, sleep, and rest; it also expects us, just as we plow through seasonal winters indifferent of its lessons, to plow through our metaphorical winters as well. Generally speaking, we are discouraged from taking the time we need to retreat and take stock. Instead, we are told not to wallow, to push through, to be strong. The problem is that the human body is not designed to do these things. We are designed to winter when wintering is necessary. This design evolved over millions of years as part of the adaptive process of out species. I don’t understand why we are now expected to defy this evolutionary prerogative. What I do understand is that pushing through when you are struggling doesn’t work in the long run. It may seem to works, but in actuality it doesn’t.

   Our ancestors used to take the winter season as an opportunity to sleep more, to rest, and to recover after a busy year working the land. These days, in the western world at least, and in cities in particular, our connection with the natural world is like single silken gossamer thread at best. We do not radically change our behavior when winter comes. Very few of us harvest food in the fall to put in jars or to dry and salt to get us through the winter months. Perhaps we get out our woollens and put away our summer clothes. Perhaps we get our chimneys swept and our furnaces serviced in preparation for cold weather, but we do not truly winter. We don’t hunker down to take a breath, and to allow our bodies to rest for a while. Some might say that modern society does not allow for us to do this, but carving out time is possible if one gives the need the priority it deserves. Much as we make time for exercise, running errands or doing chores, we need to make time for rest.  

   I honestly feel that this disconnect between ourselves and the rhythms of nature serves us ill, and it deprives us of some of natures greatest gifts as well. Instead of taking a breath, sleeping longer, and restoring ourselves, we push on through the cold months as we do through spring, summer, and fall. When the winters that we experience are of the more metaphorical kind, such as illness or loss, we similarly try to just push through, even when we have experienced metaphorical winters in the past and should know better because those winters didn’t turn out so well. We do not learn that winters need to be recognized for what they are, and that we need to change our behavior in response to them.

   Recently I had to go through a winter where I actually did have to push through for a period of time because someone was depending on me to be there, to watch over them, to take care of business, and to get them to a safe place. I did not have a choice, and I had to keep going no matter how tired or unwell or anxious I got. Not surprisingly, when I finally got my charge to a place where I knew she would be secure and comfortable, my entire system fell apart. Spectacularly.

  I have to say, when I do things I have a tendency to do them well. So, on this occasion when I fell apart, I did so in grand style; I had my first panic attack. I am very lucky because I have a support system. After getting my aunt situated in my home after driving her here from Las Vegas, I started to gasp and shake and weep. I immediately called my doctor’s office and they went into high gear to help me figure out what was going on. Not having had a panic attack before I was clueless. They reassured me and told me what to do: call your husband and ask him to come home to take care of your aunt. Then take the medication that you have a prescription for and go to bed for a little while to give your nervous system a reprieve from all of the stress that it has been under. This I did, and it did help. Temporarily.

   However, in the days that followed, I went back to going full steam ahead, blasting my way through to-do lists, piles of financial and trustee paperwork, visits to help my aunt get settled, all without considering that the panic attack was a warning. My body was telling me to take it easy, to back off. Did I listen? I did not. I kept on going, even when I felt those rashes of adrenaline pulsing up through my chest. I ignored the fact that I had lost 20 pounds in just a few months. I ignored the fact that my hair had actually become grayer in just a few weeks. 

   Finally, my husband put his foot down. His words expressed his fear for my well-being, and they, in turn, scared me into seeing what I was doing to myself. Soon after he spoke to me, we went out to a dinner, and at one point in the evening I walked down a corridor at the end of which was a large full length mirror. In the mirror I saw a figure of a gaunt woman who initially, just for a second, I did not recognize; the person I was seeing was myself; a shadow of myself. 

   Since that evening, I have worked hard not to work too hard. I have had to make myself turn off that part of my brain and heart that is my aunt’s caregiver, and to allow my own self to have her time as well.

   When we become parents for the first time, it is a naturally an all consuming thing and very often our personal selves disappear for a while because we are so wrapped up in taking care of this little human being that we have brought into the world. We are usually somewhat clueless, which only makes the job that more terrifying and all consuming.

   When you become a caregiver for an adult you are once again responsible for the well-being of another human being, but in a way it’s much more difficult because this human being, in my case, is sweet, smart, intelligent, and has a mind of her own. She has a lifetime of experiences behind her. Thus, I not only have to take care of her physical needs, but I have to do my best to try to help her adjust to a radical change in her life, and to give her emotional support. I find myself, throughout the day, thinking of things that I can get for her or show her that I hope will lift her spirits and help her feel connected to the place that she lives in now; my valley. 

   I know that she will not be able to feel the connection the way I do. I have land that I have helped care for, and a house that I tend to and love. I have put down roots in the soil. My aunt lives in an apartment building for elders, and being ninety-three and frail she cannot get out and about the way I do. She cannot walk the trails and get to know the mountains, the trees, and the wildlife the way I am able to do. So I spend a certain amount of time trying to think of ways to help her have a sense of belonging of some kind. I know, for now, her only tether to this valley, to this state even, is me. I don’t mind this at all, but I would like it if we could find a way to give her other tethers. I don’t know if that will be possible, but I would like to give it a try. It is not easy for her to make friends as she has a degree of hearing loss and some short-term memory issues. However, we are in the process of getting her hearing problem alleviated somewhat, and I hope that over time she will start to make friends at the complex where she lives.

   Though it is important for me to think about these things and seek out solutions, the thinking tends to turn into worrying, which then ties my body into knots. I need to figure out how to problem solve without becoming anxious, and I have to learn how to switch off from caregiver mode and into me mode. I will be honest and admit that I have not figured out how to do this fully. Yet. 

   Every so often a book comes along just at the right time, and this book, Wintering, came along just when I needed to hear the author’s words. I was already in the process of trying to learn how to back off, calm myself down, and take time for myself. Hearing the author’s words and sharing the struggles that she went through helped me a great deal. I was not the only twit who tries to do everything, and be everything, for everyone. I was not alone in behaving as I have been behaving. 

   This book is not a self-help book. It is a memoir of sorts, full of interesting snippets from human history and natural history. There are also references to interesting books that I have added to my already ridiculously long list of books that I want to read. Mostly though it is a very personal account of one woman’s struggles through several winters that she experienced in her life. Though she is very self deprecating and does not present herself as the hero of the story, I do think of her as being incredibly brave, and I only wish that I was as self-aware as she seems to be. When she wrote this book, she exposed her failings and failures in a way that most of us don’t have a courage to do. And in doing so she invites her readers to do the same. 

   We do not need to be super heroes all the time. We will fall apart on occasion when life throws a curve ball at us and we don’t duck; it will happen because life is not a linear, not matter how much we want it to be. Life is cyclical, like the seasons. How we respond to the dips is up to us. Most importantly of all, it is absolutely okay for that response to be to fall apart. It is during our wintering times, when we have to slow down or even stop, that we learn about who we are and what we are capable of. If we allow ourselves to step back, we can take the opportunity to better understand ourselves, and therefore ultimately find an even keel that is best suited to who we truly are where we can find ease, contentment, and even joy.