Wintering on the Farm
This year’s Frostmas, October 27, 2025
It’s December. It is the slower season on the flower farm. There are no flowers to harvest or bouquets to be made, but there is still work to be done. Last month I put thousands of plants into the ground—65 peonies, thousands of tulips, and hundreds of daffodils and allium.
It feels good to have that all finished, but the dark mornings and early nightfall definitely weigh a little heavy. It was a mild November, but December has entered with a ferocity and a clear reminder that winter, in fact, will arrive.
Winter is a season I have yet to make peace with. I anticipate it with more than a little dread. I start wearing my warmest clothes a little early, as if I can protect myself from the coming cold. I spend too many hours wishing it was a shorter season, until finally at some point, I relent and give into the rhythms of short days and long nights. The best book I ever read about the subject is Wintering, by Katherine May. She writes about wintering as a metaphor for hard times and literally as a season that captures the necessary periods of recovery and slowing down. I often try and conjure her vision of winter:
Winter is a quiet house in lamplight, a spin in the garden to see bright stars on a clear night, the roar of the wood-burning stove, and the accompanying smell of charred wood. It is warming the teapot and making cups of bitter cocoa; it is stews magicked from bones with dumplings floating like clouds. It is reading quietly and passing away the afternoon twilight watching movies. It is thick socks and the bundle of a cardigan.
While I love her vision, I still find myself pining for warmer, longer days. When I do, I try to remember all the charms of winter––family holidays, a slower pace, and more rest. I hope you travel the winter season a bit more willingly than I do. In the meantime, I will continue to remind myself that the cold is good for the plants.
Like me, they need a season of rest and renewal.
