Winter has tried really hard to arrive in New York City this year. She’s made an appearance for a few bitterly cold snaps, but she doesn’t seem to have the energy to stick around very long. Late fall and early spring have teamed up to bully her away.
We expect winter to be harsh – to dry out our skin and force us to hide beneath layers and layers of clothing. But this year, the sun has been shining most days and we have only seen our breath a handful of times. It’s been a warm winter.
The other season we are in has been milder than expected as well. I’m not sure what I thought would happen after leaving church, but I certainly didn’t expect the season to feel gentle. This warm winter has permeated our unchurched hearts too. Many of you responded after my last newsletter with your own stories or at least understanding of where we are. Isn’t that always the case? That harsh season you think you’re entering is in fact being felt by so many other travelers along the road, and the company makes it a little gentler.
Last week, Norah woke up and asked Google about the weather so she could determine the best outfit to wear, as she does every day. I could hear Google tell her it was currently snowing outside. My eyebrows raised as I looked out the window to a clear day. I walked to where I could see the ground below and noticed it did appear wet, but there was still no snow, or even rain, visible in the air.
“It’s snowing!” Norah yelled from her room.
“I don’t think it is, Nor’,” I called back.
“Yes it is! Google just told me!”
“Well, come out to the living room to see what your own eyes tell you,” I said.
She walked out in black pants, a black and white striped shirt, and her jean jacket. It was a very cute outfit.
“Oh,” she said. “Maybe it will snow a little later.”
“Maybe”, I said, “but I don’t think you’ll need boots or even your heavy jacket today.”
By the time we walked up the hill to school an hour later, there were tiny white flakes swirling in the air. But as soon as they hit the ground, they melted away. As I stood in line with Conor outside the Kindergarten gate, we both watched the flakes disappearing on the sidewalk.
“Maybe they’re just waiting for the piles to get here to stick,” he said.
“Maybe,” I replied. But really, I was imagining them racing through the ground to get to the dirt. Almost like they were each going through their own portal into another world like in a Marvel movie. I think the world below winter is fascinating. I wrote a bit about it after I took myself on an artist date to the Highline a few weeks ago. If you follow me on Instagram, you may have already read this, but I’ll share it again here.
A January garden holds secrets beneath her soil. She knows how to balance rest and work. Quiet work. Underground work.
A January garden is like a pregnant woman in her first trimester, keeping her happy secret to herself.
An actor memorizing lines for an audition.
A writer with her head down, pounding out a shitty first draft she is certain no one will ever see. A new baker leaving a bowl of yeast and warm water and flour on a darkened counter while everyone in the house sleeps.
Is a January garden anxious? Are we treading upon nervous energy under frozen ground in mid-winter? Does she wonder if what she is working on will be good? If it will be lovely? If her flowers will open to the sun after all the work of pushing through the dirt, or if they will wilt? Does she wonder if her soil is good enough?
Eventually, the heartbeat will be strong enough to build a body or it won’t. The mother will cry tears of joy or tears of grief. Her body will hold that joy or grief for the rest of her life.
The actor will take a deep breath and walk into the room where a table of people hold his head shot. He will embody the character he has come to know, walk out of the room, and wait. The call will leave him received or rejected.
The writer will share her words with a few trusted friends. They will help her know what is worth keeping and what darlings need to be saved for a different story. She will submit her final draft to a dream publication and her words will be accepted or passed over.
The baker will watch the dough meet the heat of the oven and rise to a golden dome, proving the yeast did its work, ready to melt a slab of salted butter and nourish a cold soul. Or it will deflate because the yeast wasn’t active and no amount of heat will make it rise.
A January garden reminds us that most of the work to grow something beautiful is unseen. In mid-winter she does not know if her flowers will be arranged in bouquets or drowned by angry rain. Every year, she shows us how to start over, to try again. Every year she shows us how to do the quiet work anyway.
I imagine those snowflakes were racing to be quiet spectators of the work in a January garden. Maybe they gathered in piles below instead of on top of the sidewalk. Because the soil below does the work regardless of what is happening up above. Whether it snows every day from November to April or the sun shines so brightly, moms don’t even tell their children to put their coats back on at the playground, the quiet work continues.
This warm winter feels a bit disorienting to the Montana blood flowing through my veins and my heart that is no longer tethered to a particular church community. But what a sweet, unexpected joy it has been to gulp in the air out here. To look around and see so many people flourishing in this warm winter.
See you back here in a month or so,
Jodie
P.S. My friend Ruth sent me this book for my birthday this year and it has been one of my favorite new family traditions to read each week. Bonnie Smith invites contemplation and wonder while teaching a bit about the liturgical calendar. As the subtitle notes, there are projects, prayers, reflections, and rituals included in the book. I have a feeling we will look back on this year and this book will be an anchor in our faith lives.
P.S.S. A few of my friends have written books I’d love to point you to as well.
Katie wrote a beautiful book about parenting a child with a disability called Gluing the Cracks. My undergraduate degree is in Special Education, and I realized while reading Katie’s essays that there was a vital component missing in our classes – the parents’ perspective. If you have a child with a disability, Katie’s words will make you feel seen. If you don’t have a child with a disability, Katie’s words will help you see parenting from a different perspective. No matter who you are, Katie’s words will give you hope.
I had the privilege of reading Ashlee’s book as she wrote it, and I can assure you that if you are a mother and a creative, this book will nourish your soul. Ashlee’s writing is honest and encouraging. She will remind you why you love to create and walk alongside you when you’re not sure you’ll ever have something to share again (you will!). I don’t know anyone who is a bigger cheerleader for artist mothers. Ashlee’s book comes out on March 28th, but be sure to pre-order it so you can dig in as soon as possible.
Back in November I shared about Liturgies for Hope, but just in case you need another nudge to pick it up, here it is. I met Audrey & Elizabeth two years ago when I got to serve as the lead editor for a different project they were writing for. These two are the kind of writers who make you want to write. I think their gifts come from their awe of and respect for words as well as the genuine goodness in their souls that spills onto the page. These liturgies pair especially nicely with a hot cup of coffee and the sunrise.
I need that Seasons of Wonder book!! But honestly, I feel like you could write one for me. I always think “I can’t wait to find out what Jodie is wondering in this season.” I’ve been thinking about the January garden so much in my days.
I’m so glad that you liked the book, friend! Love you and your words! 💗