Embracing Winter, A Season of Rest

By Allison Kendall

As I sit down to write this, a light flurry of tiny snowflakes is floating past my window. The garden is tucked in for the winter, autumn’s fallen leaves forming a blanket for my perennials beneath the accumulating snow. The resident chickadee stops by the birdfeeder for some seed while an animated little red squirrel looks on with envy from the snowy tree branches.

These moments are still a novelty to me. I am a relative newcomer to Manitoba and find myself regularly amazed by the natural rhythm of the seasons here on the prairie. The first few decades of my gardening experiences were spent in the very mild climate of the Northern Californian coast. I could grow almost anything year-round, though the cooler influence of the nearby ocean meant that some of the more heat-loving vegetables like peppers and tomatoes weren’t guaranteed to be a plentiful harvest.

The seasonal pattern there has changed in the past decade, but I can recall that we would only really experience two “seasons” in our California gardens: wet and dry, or winter-spring when we could expect regular rain; and summer-fall, when we would rarely see precipitation and would have to accept the annual drought and fire conditions. In the coldest part of winter, there might be a couple of nights of frost, and I would bring in my collection of cymbidium orchids to shelter in my kitchen until the chill had passed. In the dry heat of summer, I would have to be mindful of plants needing more water, as we could expect to go months without rain.

Contrasting that experience with the past few years on the Canadian prairie, I find myself enthralled by the cycle of distinct seasons here. It is only recently that I have been able to rededicate myself to gardening, and those activities have brought into clearer focus just how much the seasonal changes of our prairie climate can contribute to changes in our own energy and efforts.

Spring is much muckier and more tentative here than my coastal climate experiences had led me to believe. It is a season often portrayed as a bursting-forth, a sudden proliferation of early flowers and budding trees. I now understand that a prairie spring is a much quieter event, often mixed with reminders that wintery conditions can reach well into May, lest we forget how short our growing seasons are. I have filled some corners of my garden here with early-blooming bulbs that I can look forward to and enjoy in my homemade bouquets, so long as I remember to deter the rabbits from those succulent new leaves and flowers.

I find summer to be filled with the feeling that there will never be enough time for all of its pleasures. The garden seems to rush headlong through wave after wave of eager growth, and even in years when we experience anomalies in heat and cold, the overall pace and intensity of summer in the garden can be both exhilarating and exhausting.

The arrival of autumn can be hard to predict, but I have learned that it always brings a mix of bittersweet feelings. I find myself sad to see the beauty of summer fade, but I am also a bit relieved that the urgency of the growing season will soon be replaced by a more relaxed pace. The shortness of summer is amplified by how quickly the leaves fall, and I watch my plants closely to better understand when the frost has done its work and knocked down the last of my flowers. I rake the leaves into my flower beds, trim a few things, and leave the rest to stand over the winter, offering food for the birds and shelter for the insects.

Which brings us to the season we are now weathering. Deep and dark, winter in Manitoba has become a welcome opportunity to slow down. I particularly enjoy January as it tends to offer the most beautiful snow and the most profound cold temperatures, giving me no choice but to embrace cozy hobbies and the introspective mood of the season. I use this time to read more books, admire the gorgeous winter light as it finds a way into the furthest corners of my home, and, of course, daydream about my garden while perusing seed catalogues.

I have come to realize that back in California, there was something missing in my gardening experience, something that I am very grateful for here. In milder climates, there is no slowing down, no built-in seasonal opportunities to shift gears and catch one’s breath. There is always something that needs tending, always an opportunity to plant something new. It was easy to feel like I was perpetually falling behind or not taking full advantage of the endless growing season and not working hard enough in my garden.

Here in Manitoba, I have learned to fully appreciate our cycle of seasons with its ebb and flow of energy and effort. I enjoy tuning the pace of my life to the pace of my garden. In the summer, I am happy to give it my all, knowing that the season will never be long enough to find success in every planting. In the winter, I am content to marvel at how so many plants are simply experiencing their own bit of dormancy, and how it feels imperative that I follow their example. There is beauty in the stillness and quiet of winter, and I now understand that without this time of collective hibernation, our summers would not be so remarkable in their vibrancy.