Wintering, in review (and a Wintering review)

It’s a big stretch to say it’s still winter as I finish up this miniseries. But Wintering, Katherine May’s bestselling memoir, has its closing chapter in March and my small writing series of mine ends with this post at the cusp of April. I’m going to cut myself some slack.

One technically isn’t supposed to read other people’s book reviews of the same work that one is reviewing, but I did because I’ve seen so many colloquial reviews on socials from people I follow. Friends and influencers alike resonated deeply with Wintering. And, frankly, I was a little disappointed with the formal reviews I read, from prominent online publications like NPR and The New York Times. Kirkus Reviews contributed the compelling line “a serene evocation of a dark season,” but by and large, I felt that the reviews’ writing didn’t do Wintering justice. It is a beautifully written book, and it deserves a beautifully written review. I can’t claim that this review is going to be more beautiful than the others I’ve read so far, but I’d like to try.

Katherine May presents a breadth of experiences as she journeys through a personal winter which coincides with a seasonal winter. September through March, she chronicles her experiences of facing the cold, which encompasses slowing her life down after a Crohn’s disease diagnosis, adapting to accommodate her son’s inability to return to a difficult school environment, and taking various deep dives (sometimes literally) into activities and ways of life practiced by those who live in frigid temperatures year-round. In the process of embracing her circumstances, she finds renewed connections to family and friends, and she rediscovers her own voice after a long season of being smothered by various forces – busyness, then suffering. May is a phenomenal writer of prose, and writes in a way that provokes the reader to think. Her writing really made me laugh out loud in some areas, too.

May is a contemplative, and Wintering reads a lot like spiritual memoirs of the Christian nonfiction canon. Her journey through her physical and internal winter is akin to works like A Severe Mercy, or Sarah Clarkson’s This Beautiful Truth, which I read late last year. And while I did not expect a Christian memoir out of this read by any means, the kindredness to one – without that familiar layer of redemptive motion – made me a little sad. I am used to reading these kinds of works imbued with hope and meaning in the midst of suffering, and while the work was beautiful, the potential for perspective and redemption felt somewhat diminished to me.

It is fascinating to see how this book has taken off, and I think the reason it resonates is because testimonies are powerful. And in relation to winters, in our instant-gratification cultural moment, it seems like Western society is yearning for wisdom when it comes to facing them. Now more than ever, we need insight on how to handle our suffering that’s deeper than numbing the pain with distraction.

And what of my own winter? What can I notice, looking back on the past few months?

This practice of writing has revealed the internal winters I am facing. Most often, they take the form of journeys in my life which are long, winding, and mysterious instead of easy and clear-cut. Lurking beneath the surface of the unnameable anger I felt at the start of winter was a discontentment with the unknowing places in my life – the relationships that seem utterly confusing to navigate, the elusive vocational calling, the chronic indecision about my next right thing, the fear of regret threading it all together. A few nights ago, on a recent trip out west, I sat in an Airbnb hot tub under the stars with my friend and cried about how truly disappointed I felt that one of my dreams for my life was unfolding in such a cloudy, unclear way. This, to me, feels like the crux of personal winter.

We winter each year. It is no unexpected thing, and the dependability of this season appears to lend some insight. We can learn to prepare for winter and face it, and be reminded once more of a few things: that winters do come to an end, and that winters house their own unique goodness, though the goodness is often a hidden thing.

Jake and I went on a wintry walk a few weeks ago, the evening after our world snowed us in and froze it all over. By the time we ventured out to the nearby pub for pints and shepherd’s pie, the last evening of early darkness before Daylight Savings felt final, hailing winter’s very last, cold battle cry before spring wins over. We chatted briskly to keep our spirits up and skated carefully across patches of black ice on the pavement. Winter has been a season of taking an honest look at the things in life that make me the angriest and most confused, but it has also been full of beautiful moments like this one, pockets of laughter and connection with loved ones, small breakthroughs and glimpses of clarity. And I think I will look back on this season and see the kindness of God – even in the wintry, clouded things.

21 When my heart was grieved
    and my spirit embittered,
22 I was senseless and ignorant;
    I was a brute beast before you.

23 Yet I am always with you;
    you hold me by my right hand.
24 You guide me with your counsel,
    and afterward you will take me into glory.

Psalm 73:21-24