In the Hollow of Winter
Guest author Lindsey Murray reflects on the rituals and spaces that provide warmth, comfort, and resilience through the long, unyielding cold: the sauna, the kitchen, and the pages of a good book
Words: Lindsey Murray
Where do I go when winter feels endless? Finding this place has been a lifelong journey—for my mind, for my soul. As long as I can remember, winter has stretched out before me, vast and unyielding. Whether it truly lasted that long, I cannot say. But that it feels endless? That, each year, is certain.
Now, as I sit on my porch bathed in sunlight, rocking away the afternoon in early spring (here in the Midwest, there is such a thing as false spring, and my days are currently spent reciting breath prayers that this weather would prove true), I finally have the clarity to look back on the winter months. Clarity enough to look back upon all my winters.
(Amazing what a little sunshine can do, isn’t it?) I feel myself exhale—the breath I’ve been unknowingly holding since November. My movements become lighter, more fluid. My mind, so often burdened in winter, is free—not empty, but open. Open to curiosity. Open to creativity. I can feel the days nudging me forward, upward from the darkness.
As much as I expect winter, I have also come to expect its eventual retreat. I have learned that warmth always returns. This certainty allows me to reflect, gently and without resentment, on the things that sustained me through the cold. The rituals, the spaces, the moments that became my warmth when the world outside offered none.
The sauna has become my sanctuary. This is true warmth, a ritual I have come to cherish. A non-negotiable on most days. I know I am privileged to enjoy it.
In the sauna, my mind is quiet. The heat forces me into the present, and in the stillness, a rare prayer of gratitude rises—something my winter self rarely musters. My heart races, sweat pools at my feet, and for a moment, I am reminded of the season to come. The brighter light that, in time, will stream through my windows once more.
The Finnish, a people who know the deepest of winters, do not say they are in the sauna; they simply say they are in sauna. It is not just a building to enter but a way of being—a cleansing of body, mind, and soul. I have adopted this mindset as my own.
In winter, I sauna.
Another refuge is the kitchen, where winter calls for heavy, warming, home-cooked meals—food that fills you completely and keeps you full until you sit down at the table once more. Cooking in winter feels like time travel, using summer-grown vegetables that were mindfully canned for these very months. A small kindness from my summer self to my winter self. And for that, I am grateful.
The kitchen in winter is always almost too warm, pots simmering for hours, the oven roaring. The labor is slow, intentional—exactly what winter calls for. Even more so, it calls for the savoring of meals alongside friends. Finishing the evening with a cup of decaf (which pales in comparison to a fully caffeinated cup, but, such is life in my thirties), if only as an excuse to linger at the table a moment longer.
The kitchen calls to me all year, but in winter, it demands my presence.
And then, there are the books. Not just any book—a good book. A Wendell Berry book, preferably. Or any story that feels like coming home.
Winter demands stories that move slowly—ones that linger in the small moments of a character’s day, so that by the final page, you realize you have witnessed a full and beautifully lived life. Stories that grapple with love, grief, and family. Challenging subjects expressed in a way accessible to my winter-worn mind.
In the depths of winter, take me to Port William.
One thing is certain: winter will always come.
For me, winter is a kind of hibernation—a slowing down, a time to rest from the overflow of summer. My winters strip me bare, leaving only the essentials.
Winter is a hollow place, one I often fear, yet one that nurtures me. It fills me. It stretches me. It forces me to seek warmth more intentionally. And after many winters, I now enter the hollow dragging my feet a little less than the year before, knowing I can meet myself with gentleness.
From the hollow, I see spring.
I have endured.
And I will again.
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