The truth is, some plants are able to withstand the harshness of winter. Evergreens are famous for this. Certain hardy shrubs keep their leaves. Certain herbs, too. Even some vegetables manage to handle the cold with ease, like the encouraging sight of kale’s emerald crown towering over the snow.
With very few exceptions, to survive the winter, a plant must have a sturdy stalk and hardy roots. It must be well-established and healthy. It may lose its leaves and go dormant for a little while, but it is quietly alive beneath the frost, ready to resurrect when the earth warms up.
This is why it matters, I think, that anything we long to grow—both practically and spiritually—needs to be approached with the seasons in mind and recognized for the delicate thing that it is, when it is new.
I am a serial goal-setter and dopamine-chaser. Anyone who has been following my writing journey for longer than five years knows that I love to follow the shiny new things. I’ve had literal hundreds of ideas for novels that populate old thumb drives and floppy disks, dozens of failed blogs scattered throughout the web, and hobbies quickly adopted and then relegated to boxes in a closet, waiting to be rediscovered. I like the feeling of starting. But continuing—and eventually ending—is tough.
Starting something new feels fresh and good. New hobbies, new ideas, new goals, new dreams, new perspectives…there is a rush inherent in witnessing that sense of possibility. Of watching that seed sprout.
But sprouting is not enough. To grow, and to withstand the wind and rain and bitter cold of life’s seasons, what you’ve planted needs to be strong. Or, at the very least, covered by something stronger until it is strong enough on its own.
When I look at my longings for 2023, I recognize that many of them are still very young, tiny baby hopes that could be easily overcome by the killing frost of my apathy or criticism from others. This is normal.
It is up to me to shield these baby dreams for a little while. To let them simmer, percolate, ferment, incubate. To give them a safe shelter until they are ready to stand on their own.
Growth is slow in winter, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t happening.
Soon enough, the warmth of God’s spring will turn all new growth to glory. But until then, hold every seedling tight to your chest and whisper the prayer of the winter gardener:
Soon…soon…soon…
Thank you for reading!
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"I am a serial goal-setter and dopamine-chaser. Anyone who has been following my writing journey for longer than five years knows that I love to follow the shiny new things. I’ve had literal hundreds of ideas for novels that populate old thumb drives and floppy disks, dozens of failed blogs scattered throughout the web, and hobbies quickly adopted and then relegated to boxes in a closet, waiting to be rediscovered. I like the feeling of starting. But continuing—and eventually ending—is tough."
This is me. And, ironically I was just talking to a friend about my explorative nature this morning.
This is so relatable! The feeling of starting ... yes, yes yes. I am the same way. That dopamine hit ..... that doesn’t last as long with commitment to the thing. Growth isn’t always exciting -- but the fruit that eventually comes is! That in between time is tough for me, though.