I’m walking through the winter, each breath in this coldness visible, taking each footstep with care. I’m walking through a place where there are only four hours of daylight in this darkest of seasons. Here is a place where you might think nothing could possibly grow or flourish.
I’m walking with particular care because the last time I was here, I fell and shattered the bones in the limb which is my livelihood, my right arm. Thereafter I had a year of darkness and depression, pain and illness. Now I’m back walking through winter in Iceland’s Thingvellir National Park.
I look ahead, and I’m stopped in my tracks by luminous green amidst the snow and dark rocks. Moss! Marvellous moss — able to grow even in the toughest and bleakest of climates. Be more like moss, I think. Flourish even in the darkest, coldest places when the odds seem stacked against you.
Later, I’m back writing about the experience in the snowcapped mountains of Mossfellsbaer, known as the ‘green town’ due to its geothermal activity, greenhouses and abundant lakes and rivers flowing down to the sea. I’m staying in a place named after the Icelandic writer and former Nobel Laureate, Laxness, a writer who knew that even winter could be a source of inspiration. Iceland is a lesson in how alive and colourful the wintertime can be, with the hot springs gushing from the earth, the turquoise lagoons, and the fiery sunsets. Writers the world over have captured the beauty and glory of the season, as well as in my writing masterclass. I encourage participants to do so too, wherever in the world they might be.
Taking time to pay attention to nature, even in winter, can bring enormous benefits to our physical and mental health. Also, taking the time to write about the natural world, to capture the experience in words even when we may be back inside or far from nature, can again do wonders for our well-being. I realise how that marvellous moss has grown inside the mind, layered itself in the internal landscape.
In my hometown of Manchester, UK, I walk through winter and wonder at the tree branches, stripped bare to the bone.
I stop to admire the glory of winter wildlife and all that still grows and sings through the cold and darkness, the beauty of birdsong taking the sting out of a brutal year and the bright red berries a joyous hot spot of colour in the dark.
Walking through wintry landscapes, I’m focused on the outer world and feel the positive effects on both the body and mind — endorphins are released, my breathing is more even, and with each footstep, anxious ruminations quieten down and, for a while, I’m lifted beyond the still persistent pain in my wrist.
Winter reminds us of the virtues of darkness within which life grows;
I walk and think of life beneath the black soil, of cells multiplying and dividing, of seeds soon enough to flourish in Spring.
Join Anita for her upcoming masterclass, Writing the seasons: Nature writing for winter, taking place online on Monday 30 January 2023 at 6.30pm (GMT).
