What If Winter Isn’t Empty?

Reflections from The Winter Gathering

On a "not too cold" Saturday evening in July, a roomful of people gathered in Box Hill. People carrying different lives, different stories and, almost certainly, different kinds of winter.

Some came with friends. Some came alone. Some knew exactly what the evening was going to be. Most of us - myself included - probably didn’t.

We shared soup. We pondered. We listened. We laughed. We made art. We spoke about bodies, ancient texts, courage, community, ordinary Tuesdays and the strange little brown bulbs that had somehow become my teachers.

And together, we sat with one question:

What grows in the dark?

I have been thinking about bulbs for months. Not the beautiful part that eventually pushes through the earth and announces itself as a flower. The bulb itself. That unimpressive, slightly ugly little thing buried underground, apparently doing nothing.

I kept wondering how often we mistake what we cannot see for what is not happening.

We are taught to recognise growth when it becomes visible - The new job. The completed project. The healed relationship. The confident performance. The transformation photograph ... The flower.

But roots rarely make a spectacle of themselves.

They do not ask for applause. They do not provide weekly progress reports. They do not become anxious because the garden next door appears to be flowering more efficiently.

They simply keep becoming.

And I began to wonder If perhaps people do too...

Maybe slow doesn’t mean something is wrong

I am not naturally gifted at allowing things to take their own time. I would prefer healing by Thursday, clarity by next Tuesday and full character development wrapped up before Christmas.

Life, unfortunately, has shown very little interest in my preferred schedule.

Neither has my body.

During the gathering, our guest, Belinda McIntosh, reminded us that the body sets the tempo. Some kinds of healing cannot be bullied, hurried or neatly fitted into our calendars. Change may be happening long before we are capable of recognising it.

Sometimes we only notice months later that something which once completely floored us no longer carries quite the same weight.

Something has shifted.

Not dramatically. Not publicly.

But truly.

Perhaps slow is not the opposite of growth.

Perhaps slow is simply the pace some things require.

And perhaps small is not a failed version of big. Sometimes a small life, a small beginning or one small act of courage is exactly where becoming begins.

A conversation.

Asking for help.

Picking up the paintbrush again.

Joining that choir.

Saying yes before you feel ready.

Sometimes courage is not something we find before we begin. Sometimes it grows because, for a moment, we borrow a little from the people standing beside us.

We are not having original crises

One of the more comforting discoveries of getting older is realising that I am almost certainly not having an original crisis.

My younger self believed she was inventing confusion. Every uncertainty felt unprecedented. Every disappointment seemed like evidence that I had somehow taken a wrong turn.

But then you live a little longer. You sit around more dinner tables. You are Invited Into more people’s lives. You discover old songs and older books ...

Our guest, Megan Turton, reminded us that ancient stories aren't relics of the past -they're conversations we're still being invited into.

Eventually, you realise that human beings have been standing in uncertain places for a very long time.

People have always loved and lost. They have always worried about their children, questioned who they were becoming, doubted whether they were enough and wondered what came next.

The details change.

The questions don’t.

And once we realise this, we can begin collecting teachers.

Gardens. Bodies. Songs. Ancient stories. Friends. Artists. People who have lived a little longer. People who have survived something we are only beginning to understand.

A good story does not necessarily solve your life.

Sometimes it simply leans over and whispers:

I have been somewhere like this before.

And somehow, that is enough to help us keep walking.

Roots rarely grow alone

When I first became fascinated by bulbs, I thought they were teaching me that the most important work happens underground. But gardens have been teaching me something else too - Underground, roots rarely grow alone.

From above, a garden looks like a collection of separate plants. Underneath, it is another story. Roots are sharing nutrients. Fungi are carrying messages. Worms are turning decay into new life. Older trees are supporting younger ones. Healthier trees are helping those that are struggling.

There is far more connection beneath the surface than we can see from above.

I wonder whether people might be a little like gardens.

We love the story of the self-made person—the person who worked everything out alone. But I have never actually met one. Every person I admire can point to somebody. A teacher. A parent. A friend. Someone who stayed. Someone who saw something in them before they could see it themselves. Someone who created enough safety for them to keep becoming.

When I look back over my own life, I do not only see milestones. I see people. People who quietly became part of what was growing in me, many of whom probably have no idea they did.

Our guest, Hannah Wright, reminded us that perhaps becoming isn't a solo project after all. More often than not, we don't need people to rescue us—we need people and places that make it safe to keep becoming.

Sometimes we spend years believing there is something wrong with us when, in truth, we have simply been trying to grow in the wrong environment.

We thought we were not creative when we had never been given permission.

We thought we were too much, not enough, too sensitive, too quiet or too difficult.

Perhaps we were simply standing in rooms that kept asking us to become a version of somebody else’s comfort.

The right room does not make every fear disappear.

But it may lend us enough courage to take the next step.

What is this season growing in me?

I do not imagine one gathering changes a life - at least, not in a way we can measure two mornings later. Perhaps it is simply too soon to know. Maybe the evening returns while you are standing in the kitchen making tea. Perhaps you notice a plant near the window or remember something one of our guests said. Perhaps a song follows you home.

And perhaps, for a moment, you ask a different question.

Not: When will I flower?

But: What is this season growing in me?

The world has been quietly teaching us all along.

Through gardens.

Through our bodies.

Through old stories.

Through songs.

Through friendship.

Through ordinary Tuesdays.

Through people.

Wisdom rarely arrives all at once. It gathers—one conversation, one season, one friendship and one small act of courage at a time.

I do not know what your winter is. Only you know that. But the next time you find yourself standing in a season that feels unfinished—a season that looks suspiciously like bare earth—I hope you remember that you are not the only one. And you need not be alone.

Keep collecting teachers.

Keep looking for fellow travellers.

Keep noticing the unexpected places where wisdom hides.

Winter has never been empty.

It is simply growing something you cannot yet see.