Winter Trees

Dormancy isn't just rest, but quiet renewal, letting life slow down long enough to rediscover what makes it sweet.

What we saw this past weekend

When the wildlife sanctuary my girlfriend and I frequent is alive during the summer months, it’s vibrant with color, and activity is everywhere. You might see a squirrel or a rabbit dart past. Fish jump and splash. Water laps at the shore. Various fowl swim or squawk overhead. Butterflies flutter. Bees buzz. Mosquitoes bite. And there’s so much to explore.

In winter, the sanctuary is different, offering a different sort of peace. We visited this past Saturday. The temperature was thirty degrees, but the wind wasn’t bad, so it made for an enjoyable outing.

As we entered, the winter trees stood bare against the cold, silent landscape — no longer lush or in bloom, yet still deeply alive. Even in seasons where nothing seems to be happening, important work is being done beneath the surface. From what I’m reading, this process of conserving energy and resources in trees is known as dormancy.

According to this article, during dormancy, trees lose their leaves to reduce water loss, produce antifreeze to protect their cells from freezing, slow their growth and metabolism and store food in their roots and trunk.

We could learn a lot from winter trees.

Dormancy has a couple of definitions: (1) A state of quiet (but possibly temporary) inaction. (2) Quiet and inactive restfulness.

I’m not sure winter trees are actually inactive, given all they do to preserve themselves against harsh temperatures, but maybe it means they aren’t as active. That would make sense.

Anyway, I love this idea of inactive restfulness. I don’t know what that looks like for you, but for me, it means escaping my routines and ignoring my phone. It’s about finding moments to step out of the noise of life and simply be present.

As my girlfriend and I got to the primary body of water, a thin layer of scattered snowflakes sat on top of the ice. The occasional stray branch poked through, frozen in place until the spring thaw. An animal or two scurried through the dead leaves. Occasionally, a V-shaped formation of geese squawked overhead. But it was far quieter than during the spring or summer months.

My girlfriend ventured out on the ice a foot or two and posed for a picture or twenty (I tend to take a lot of pictures). And we both became little kids again. She shuffled cautiously at first, testing the ice beneath her feet, but soon she was laughing. I continued my paparazzi-like tendencies, half-documenting the moment, half-living it.

There was something freeing about letting go of the seriousness of life for a little while. No deadlines or emails — just the thrill of being in a wide-open, frozen world where time seemed to stand still.

We didn’t care about looking silly. She struck exaggerated poses, and I couldn’t help but grin, even if I was a little nervous with her on the ice. We had no agenda or purpose — only the joy of being present together.

As I’ve thought about it since then, I’ve wondered if this is what dormancy feels like; it’s not just rest, but quiet renewal, letting life slow down long enough to rediscover what makes it sweet — just like the trees, quietly gathering strength beneath the surface.