Slow Seasons: Winter
A slow story, a guide, and permission to feel everything this season.
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I noticed her sunglasses first: oval, burgundy, reminiscent of another time. Her black wool coat delicately dusted the floor of the subway car. She tucked her gray, shoulder-length hair behind her ears and lifted an enormous Hasselblad camera in our direction, but not at us. In between shots, she rubbed her partner’s arm affectionately as the train swerved beneath the city.
The shoot progressed across multiple stops. I quietly asked John if he knew anything about the camera, and he shrugged. “I’m pretty sure that it’s mainly used for major productions, not casual subway photography.” We spent the rest of the ride trying to figure out who the woman might be: a famous street photographer collecting images for an upcoming show, a mother who’d inherited a family heirloom, a person who didn’t know much about the equipment in their hands (but didn’t let that stop her), a stranger whose story we’d never know but were fascinated by nonetheless.
More than the size of the lens, I was curious about the lens through which she was seeing the world. Even on a Saturday afternoon in the New York City subway, the sights were arguably unremarkable—though I always appreciate someone taking the opportunity to transform the mundane into something magical, or at the very least, find a new way of seeing.
In winter, there’s less to look at and more to consider. Sometimes it’s disorienting to find that my view is unobstructed. Yet whenever I glimpse what’s left of the trees quivering in the wind, I feel comforted by their silent resolve—and, just beyond them, amazed at the people making their way in the world, without a canopy of leaves to rest under when things are hard. And things are exceedingly hard as we continue navigating the horrors unfolding across the globe. It certainly doesn’t help that winter has a reputation for emphasizing any trace of pain or discomfort. Still, I believe something generative lives in this tension: If we let it, winter becomes an intimate companion. A period of both learning and unlearning. A process of recognition—and reckoning. A call to capture the moment—a feeling. An invitation to slow down and bear witness.
Towards the end of our ride, the woman switched to flash photography, which drew attention from the entire car. Before I could work up the courage to ask her any questions, I found myself ascending the stairs up to 8th Avenue, where a sharp gust of wind greeted us upon exiting the station. After running some errands in the neighborhood, we headed home, and seemingly out of nowhere, two familiar outlines materialized across the street: the woman and her person, walking arm in arm. It had been almost an hour since our initial encounter. We hadn’t seen them leave the train. They looked cold, but still happy, strolling in golden hour light, camera at the ready.
I don’t think it’s a coincidence when we run into strangers on multiple occasions—especially if their energy lingers in such a way that you want to commit their personhood to paper, even as you’re trying to maintain your own.
I watched their figures grow smaller, and then turned to John. “Maybe that’s us from the future.”
He smiled and glanced at them again. “They do kind of look like us from a distance.”
To and from. Back and forth. History repeats itself. Seasons come and go.
From a distance, I try to tell you this story, and instead, remember all the ways winter has simultaneously let me down and let me know it’s okay to be an imperfect person in a world that’s stripping us of our humanity. From a distance, I see words becoming sentences—and then stories—that I carry with me, in the same way you might carry a camera around your neck. From a distance, so much remains unknown, and yet I try to believe that no matter what direction we’re coming from or moving toward, all of us are closer than we think: to hope, to peace, to each other. From a distance, I think about the stranger we saw on the train, capturing photos of who knows what—smiling—as we barreled towards some kind of light at the end of the tunnel.
WAYS TO WINTER
Respect the season
As I’ve said before, I like winter, but more than that, I respect it. I initially wrote this line a few years ago and am only just realizing how deeply ingrained the sentiment has become. While we’re often asked what we like or dislike about certain seasons, consider this your invitation to go one layer deeper: What do you respect about winter? For me, it’s the alluring strangeness that comes in a season marking both a beginning and an end. The inevitable darkness. The hidden possibility.
Start a sensorial diary
We feel everything in winter. It’s a time of celebration, illness, rebirth, reflection, hibernation. It’s also the perfect time to take note of textures, scents, sights, sounds, or whatever senses speak most to you. What you pay attention to may offer unexpected surprises, and at the very least, help you come to terms with the nuances of the season.
Work near a window
I’ve always loved watching light, and winter is my favorite season for studying how it shapes our inner and outer worlds. On the days when it’s simply too cold to venture outside, I always make it a point to read, write, or work near a window. In doing so, I’m drawn to the elements in new ways and from a different vantage point.
Cultivate festivity all season long
The holidays are behind us, but that doesn’t mean you have to stop finding moments of celebration. Reimagine this time and take a (prompt) page from my book, Slowing:
Name your other season—think: stillness, happiness, adventure—and write about its attributes so you know what to look for when (or if) it arrives.
A SEASONAL SYLLABUS
This season is often one of my most nourishing reading periods, simply for its permission to slow down and stay in with a good book. Admittedly, I’ve struggled a bit with my pace in recent months, but looking at my library, I’m delighted by all that awaits. In that spirit, here’s a list of titles inspired by/set in/best read in winter (and yes, some of them are still in my TBR… slow and steady!).
HONORABLE MENTIONS: SUBSTACK EDITION
“How to Fall in Love with Winter” by Sandy Sanchez of Small Pleasures
“Taking to Bed + A Winter-Break Reading Guide” by Lauren Sands of A Whimsical World
“The quiet language of snow” by Jenna Park of Everything is Liminal
“The soft week” by Emma Leokadia Walkiewicz of Girls on the Page
“What About Winter?” by yours truly for Coveteur
STYLE THE SEASON
If you’ve followed my work, you know that storytelling and style are deeply intertwined. A couple of years ago, I wrote an ode to winter hats for Coveteur, and I've continued growing my collection since then. Here’s a look at some of my favorites.
ENJOY THE SIGHTS
A look at what I’ve captured (and what’s been capturing my attention) this season—so far.
For Your Next Chapter
If you enjoyed this slow story, here are a few others that might slow your scroll…
This was such a lovely read. I’m curious about the photographer you crossed paths with twice on the same day. I love those kinds of encounters with interesting people. Maybe you’ll meet again and have a conversation.
I’ve had Devotions by Mary Oliver sitting on my shelf just waiting to be read! I’m taking this as a sign for it to be my next read!