Reacquainting with Winter’s Wonder: Winter Rituals for Slowing Down This Season

Winter is here—dark evenings rolling in and interrupting our afternoons, chilled rainy days that make even the most extroverted among us crave a blanket and a slow kettle. This time of year always feels a little abrupt, as if the world tilts suddenly and asks us to adapt overnight. And so we reach for the small rituals that help us muddle through the darkest days: cold walks under low skies, strings of lights thrown over anything that will sit still, and the ancient human impulse to gather sprigs of evergreen to soften winter’s edges.

For thousands of years, people have carried greenery indoors as a quiet act of defiance and hope. A gesture that says: even now, even in this long stretch of dark, life persists.

And perhaps that is why these rituals still matter—not because they are decorative, but because they help us feel tethered.

The Old Languages of Winter Greenery

Evergreens have always been teachers of resilience. Growing up in the Redwood Forest, I woke each morning to a canopy that felt almost cathedral-like—trunks older than memory, branches that held steady through fog, rain, and the slow churn of seasons. These giants sheltered everything below: moss, animals, people, and whatever ideas a child brings into the woods.

Across Celtic, Nordic, and British traditions, winter greenery has symbolised protection and endurance: holly guarding the threshold, ivy weaving continuity, yew and pine whispering that life is cyclical rather than lost. Solstice celebrations often intertwined greenery with light—fire, candles, lanterns—reminders that darkness is a season, not a sentence.

These practices weren’t about aesthetics; they were about relationship. About honouring the land that held you, even in its most austere months.

A Modern Disconnect

Today, many of us move through winter almost entirely indoors, under artificial light and artificial timelines. Greenery arrives to us through shops, wrapped in plastic, shaped to trends. It becomes décor rather than connection—something to purchase rather than participate in.

There’s no moral failing in buying a wreath, and there is real joy in hanging something beautiful. But somewhere along the way, we’ve been convinced that the season requires consumption rather than creation. That what once came from our hands, our landscapes, and our shared time must now come from a checkout screen.

Research points to this widening disconnect. Scholars describe an “extinction of experience”—a world where nature becomes an abstraction rather than an encounter. When children grow up without unstructured time outdoors, and adults rarely touch the nonhuman world beyond a footpath or a window view, it becomes much harder to cultivate wonder, ecological care, or even a felt sense of belonging.

In the dark months especially, we forget that rhythm, seasonality, and slowness are part of what makes us human.

Why Re-Greening Matters

Reclaiming these small rituals of gathering and making isn’t just nostalgic—it’s necessary.

Being around natural materials calms the nervous system and restores attention. Seasonal rituals create a sense of rhythm and belonging in a culture that often feels disjointed. Even a simple walk to gather fallen branches reminds us that we live alongside more-than-human worlds, not above or beyond them.

Ecocentric research argues that wonder is not an indulgence but a form of education—one that recognises the intrinsic value of nature and encourages ethical, creative, connected ways of living. Direct contact with the natural world strengthens imagination, cooperation, and a sense of being part of something larger. It’s the antidote to fragmentation.

And for me, this ties directly to peacebuilding: nature is one of the few shared spaces that asks nothing of us except attention. It grounds us, equalises us, and brings us back into relationship—both with place and with one another.

Simple Ways to Bring Nature Home This Season

This winter, I encourage you—gently, without pressure or perfection—to step outside and reacquaint yourself with the world that waits beyond the door.

A few simple, accessible practices:

• Take a slow walk on a local path. Notice what the season actually feels like where you live.

• Gather mindfully. Pick up fallen branches, pinecones, ivy, moss, or wind-blown greenery. Only what the land has released. Leave plenty for wildlife.

• Make a wreath or garland. All you need is wire and a circular base (which you can even weave from flexible sticks). Let the structure be imperfect, a little wild.

• Create a small bundle of winter green for your table or entryway. A sprig of pine, a twist of ivy, a cluster of dried grasses.

Let the practice be slow. A walk, a pause, a breath. The purpose isn’t the object; it’s the encounter.

These rituals are not about crafting—they’re about remembering. About shifting from abstraction back into experience.

An Invitation Back to Wonder

Perhaps this year, the simple act of bringing greenery indoors can be a small return—to rhythm, to nature, to ourselves.

A way of softening winter’s edges, yes, but also a way of re-learning intimacy with the places we call home.

If you try it, I’d love to hear what you gather, what memories surface, or what new traditions you begin. And if you’d like to explore this practice in community, our Gather & Green workshop is coming soon.

Until then: may wonder find you, even in the deepest dark.

Author's Note

The more I study place, memory, and ecology, the more convinced I am that reconnecting with nature isn’t optional—it’s something we quietly depend on. Not in an academic, grand-theory way, but in the small, everyday practices that help us feel a bit more rooted. This piece comes from that blend of research, lived experience, and a few cold winter walks that reminded me (again) why wonder still matters. I hope it offers a gentle nudge toward your own moments of connection this season.