Winter, Dissonance, and a Bear’s Heart

Winter is not my season. Everything in nature slows down, contracts, and goes dormant—and honestly, that sounds like the right idea. But modern life doesn’t allow for that kind of rhythm. Instead, we’re expected to keep running at full speed, and somehow even go faster. Holiday parties. Endless to-do lists. A consumer-driven, capitalist-fueled guilt trip about gifting everyone we’ve ever made eye contact with.

And listen to me, I love gifts. Gifts are one of my love languages. I believe deeply in their meaning. But I still feel the dissonance. That clash between what my body and spirit want (rest, quiet, hibernation) and what the world demands (more, louder, faster). Dissonance has been a theme for me lately. It’s winter. I’m allowed to mope.

Cold and darkness are not my gig. In summer, I can roll out of bed and be walking by 8 a.m. without thinking twice. In winter, getting out the door by 10 feels like a miracle. All I want to do is curl into a ball, wrap myself in layers, and sit by a fire. I’m convinced I’m part bear. If hibernation were an option, I’d happily sign up. Wake me in April.

I know there are places where winter is much worse. I’ve lived in some of them. There’s a reason I came back to California.

Here in California’s Central Valley, we used to get months of Tule fog every single year. A thick, heavy blanket of low clouds that looked like it was slowly pouring across the land, cutting us off from the sun entirely. The only way out was to drive uphill, into the foothills or toward the coast range, but daily escapes like that aren’t exactly realistic.

For a while, the fog eased. Drier conditions and better pollution control meant fewer of those endless gray stretches. But this year? It’s back. Weeks and weeks of it. Probably from the extra moisture in the air, not pollution, but either way, it’s cold, it’s dark, and I am not a happy camper.

And as much as I complain, here’s the truth: staying inside all day does me no favors either. Cabin fever is real. So even when every instinct says “hibernate,” I bundle up, layer up Ginty, and get us both out on the trail.

Golden Ear and Speckled Greenshield cover a fallen branch along a trail in Rocklin.

Those winter walks are saving me. The air is cold, but it’s fresh. The light is dim, but it still filters through the fog in its own quiet way. After a while, it actually starts to feel better, like my body remembers what movement feels like. And thanks to an iNaturalist challenge to find and document fungus, I’ve been keeping my eyes open. It’s amazing how many kinds of fungi reveal themselves when you’re actually looking for them. Tiny surprises, little pockets of wonder, hiding in plain sight.

My other refuge has been my art studio.

I’ve filled it with daylight-balanced lights because accurate color matters when you’re creating. But they do something else, too. They mimic sunlight. When the world outside feels like a dim, frozen cave, I can step into my studio, flip on the lights, and feel like a human again.

I turn on the lights. I make something, I’ve been working in my art journal a lot. I breathe.

At my journaling table in the studio.

And somehow, that helps me make it through winter.

If you’re feeling the heaviness of this season too, I hope you can find a small place of light - a room, a walk, a pencil, a brush, a quiet moment - wherever your spirit softens and your shoulders drop. You don’t have to be productive. You don’t have to be cheerful. You just have to be here. And if it helps, I’d love to hear what brings you a little warmth in the darker months.