REFLECTIONS ON SELF | NATURE

Winter is the Time For Composting Weeds and Worn-Out Dreams

With every mini death comes a renewal

The abundant growth of summer culminates in a lush chaos of greens, yellows, pinks, purples, oranges, reds and whites in my beloved little garden. So when late autumn and early winter arrive, I feel a great sense of relief combined with accomplishment as I tidy the beds, dig out weeds, thin the ever-multiplying strawberry plants and raspberry canes, cut away the deadened stalks and leaves, and prune back that which is stealing too much of the sun’s energy.

As I add to my ever growing-shrinking-growing-shrinking compost heap, my mind wanders to the magic that will happen there over the next months, as the half-rotted matter nearer to the bottom will finish its processes and be ready to return to the beds come spring. The fine, dark, crumbly soil will have lost its pungent odour and will instead smell of new life; that smell does not lie, for the energy of the old injects freshness and power into seeds and young seedlings.

But there’s something else that happens as I toil away in my little garden.

Finding those tiny moments when the ground water has dried enough and the sun has shone for long enough to be able to work and do the earth justice isn’t easy. Winter draws me indoors, close to heat sources, bowls of steaming soup, and hot cups of tea, so an afternoon spent digging feels invigorating to my winter-stiff muscles and joints and the cold air awakens my sleepy mind. The sun, though its presence is short before it dips behind the neighbour’s fence, fills me with a rare delight that I will treasure until the next opportunity to feel its energy seeping through my skin.

As I feel a sense of renewal in tiny increments with every weed I compost, with every shovelful of soil I turn, and with every remaining healthy root that I lovingly mulch, I feel the tension of old, tired habits, worn-out ideas, and wasted thoughts leave my mind and body. Just as I put fresh love into the newly tidied fruit and flower beds, I add old, wrung-out energy onto the compost heap along with the brown and green garden waste, ready to rot down and re-energise in a fresh and new form next spring.

Just as autumn and winter processes are vital if spring is to blossom and unfurl, so our own unravellings are vital too; our own mini deaths, our own composting so needed if we are to grow and flourish. — Brigit Anna McNeill, author.

Home suddenly becomes my everything as the autumn turns to winter. The cold outside keeps me relishing my indoor space and that desire to beautify it becomes immense. Clutter suddenly becomes evident wherever it shows up. Smears of dirty fingers on glass glare at me. Dead flies left among dust on window ledges are hostile and ugly against the darling cosiness of my home.

And so I clear the house of unneeded clothes and shoes, broken pieces of furniture, old papers and magazines. I brush and wipe and shine, ridding my home of that which is no longer required.

And with that wiping away and cleaning, I send signals of death to that which no longer serves me, washing it all down the sink as I wring out my cleaning cloths. With every cleansing of old unrealised wishes, I plant little seeds of hope and ideas to lie in wait for the moment that they can start to germinate.

A happy, clear and shiny home provides the perfect nutritional balance made of the well-used and composted memories from the year gone by, injecting stored and refreshed nutrients of belief into the year to come.

The blackening, the decay of parts of who we are, create needed food, space and light for what we wish to become. — Brigit Anna McNeill, author.

Winter, for me, is a time of letting go of those parts of me which once were important but are now well past their use-by date.

I always used to think that we never really change much throughout our lives, but now I believe I was very wrong. Aspects of my personality have grown and matured. My whimsical nature no longer takes over, and my thought processes no longer go running down one channel, forgetting to look up along the way. Once outspoken and ready to lash out at anything that I saw as wrong, I now take my time, allow my thoughts to encompass a broader spectrum of perspectives, and consider the consequences of speaking my mind.

I no longer try to do things to please others, or to influence how others see me, but instead I do those things that are right for me.

You could say I have grown up, and I wouldn’t disagree. But I also see myself shedding aspects of me that I truly once saw as important. Dreams that I explored only to discover they were not my calling. Relationships that turned out not to be aligned with the vision I hold for myself in life.

And that recognition is a delight. The permission to let go of an aspect of myself, the weight that is lifted as I watch it gradually blacken and break down, makes way for more light and space to come through and cultivate something new — something that may not linger for more than the next year, but, equally, may take root in my garden of life for longer.

The threshold of becoming always demands a death — a sacrifice of an aspect of me that blocks the light from getting through, and hinders the sprouting of that which I am ready to grow.

Winter is a goodbye to the old

I always fear the winter. Yet I don’t truly understand why.

Because each year, no matter what, I feel an immense sense of delight in welcoming it in. I welcome the darker days, the going inwards, the cosy blankets, the thick socks, and the woollen coats and hats. I love a walk in the crisp, cold air, a wander through Christmas markets, stopping for roasted chestnuts and mulled wine.

Granted, it can drag on. But then again, goodbyes should never happen in a hurry. Allowing things to go gently but firmly, at a time of year when nothing at all can be hurried.

And yet, when spring arrives, in a moment of reflection I find myself saying, “now that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Spring is a hello to the new

And then arrives the moment I have been waiting for. Arriving in glimmers of white and then yellows, deep purples and rich pinks, hints of spring tease and taunt us, bringing moments of delight amid the increasingly cold air.

But like the passing of winter, we cannot expect the arrival of spring to be hurried. Allowing those seeds to germinate takes time and patience. But knowing, believing that the moment of glory is coming is what keeps our resolve strong. That feeling in our core that everything we desire is about to unfold, and everything we wish to manifest is taking root, as yet unseen.

And, when the sun finally warms us enough and the earth bursts into life, we are ready to welcome those dreams once more, to allow that belief to take root, to put energy into action, and to watch new growth as it comes into being, into becoming.

But that’s a winter away yet.

For now, as we watch the trees shed the last of their leaves before leaving themselves bare, I remain here, amid my time of composting. Composting weeds, old dreams, old habits, old beliefs.

Happily, lovingly, putting them to bed, along with my garden, and the fruits, flowers and shrubs that await the sun once more.