The Gift of Wintering: Before the Turning of the Page — Introduction

Some books arrive in our lives at exactly the right moment. Others wait patiently until we are ready to understand them.

I remember encountering Wintering by Katherine May for the first time by chance. The bright orange cover caught my eye as it passed across the circulation desk, the word itself—wintering—lingering with me longer than I expected. At the time, December had arrived, but winter had not yet made itself known. The sidewalks were still clear, the light had not fully withdrawn, and the season felt more theoretical than lived.

Still, I knew what was coming. The ice. The wind. The quiet.

As I stepped into the new year, I found myself wanting to feel differently about winter—not as something to endure, but as something to understand. That curiosity led me to place the book on hold. When it was finally time to take it home, I read with the sense that I was being invited into a language I hadn’t yet learned.

May describes wintering as “those moments when you fall through the cracks and are unable to get a foothold back in everyday life.” She goes on to write:

“Whatever the cause, it’s a lonely and painful time, but it’s also the experience of change happening. I think we need to learn to accept and even welcome our winters because they’re a crucial part of our humanity. Wintering is how wisdom is made, and every time we winter, we grow in resilience and compassion, and we deepen our capacity for joy.”

Her words stopped me.

Not because they were unfamiliar, but because they named something I had never quite allowed myself to claim: the idea that stillness, retreat, and quiet are not failures of momentum—but necessary stages of becoming.

It made me wonder whether I had ever truly given myself permission to winter.

Years have passed since I returned that bright orange book to the library. Yet its lessons have followed me—into my reading life, into my work, and into the rhythms I now try to honor rather than resist. Wintering, I’ve learned, is not about withdrawal for its own sake. It is about preparation. About listening. About tending to what must happen before the next turning of the page.

Wintering teaches us to move differently—to read more slowly, to revisit what we thought we already knew, to sit with silence long enough for meaning to surface.

Over the coming days, Before the Turning of the Page explores these practices through reflection: what we read when the celebrations end, how reading prepares us rather than performs for us, why rereading matters, and how a reading life becomes a long conversation. Each post builds toward the same quiet intention—arriving at February grounded, attentive, and ready.

This series, Before the Turning of the Page, is rooted in that same understanding.

Before we rush toward February.Before we name themes and authors and reading plans.We pause.

At H. WordSmith Reads, we believe reading is a practice of attention. This week is an invitation to slow down, revisit familiar texts, and sit with the quieter questions that shape us as readers—questions that rarely announce themselves loudly, but linger long after the season changes.

Winter is not something to escape. It is something to learn from.

And this week, we begin there.

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Reading Invitation

What does wintering look like in your reading life right now? Is there a book—or a season—you’ve been rushing past instead of sitting with?

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Before the Turning of the Page

January 23–29 at H. WordSmith Reads

This post is part of Before the Turning of the Page, a week-long reading series devoted to preparation, reflection, and the quieter work of becoming a reader who listens deeply. Together, these posts form the foundation for our February reading calendar and our ongoing commitment to intentional, reflective reading.

You are welcome to join us at any point. There is no catching up—only continuing.