Winter Solstice: Trusting the Rhythm of Nature and the Quiet Return of Light

These are the darkest days of the year.

The sun slips away early. Evenings stretch long. Everything feels a little heavier, a little slower. If you’ve noticed it—if you’ve felt it—you’re not imagining it.

Here in the Treasure Valley, winter settles in with intention. Around the winter solstice, we experience the longest nights of the year. More darkness than light. Nature itself seems to pause.

When the World Slows Down

As a flower grower, my life is shaped by daylight. I pay attention to how long the sun stays, when it leaves, and when it returns. In winter, the garden rests. Growth pauses. Seeds sleep beneath the soil.

There is no urgency here.

The land is doing exactly what it was made to do.

At home, this season invites a similar rhythm. Evenings turn inward. A fire going. Something warm simmering on the stove. Christmas lights glowing softly while music plays in the background. Comfort food pulled from summer stores. Simple things that feel grounding rather than empty.

Light Shows Up in Unexpected Ways

What always surprises me about this season is how much light appears right in the middle of the darkness.

Not just the twinkling lights on houses and trees—but the quieter kind of light.

People giving more freely.
Checking in more often.
Stretching themselves beyond comfort to care for others.

It feels intentional that generosity, celebration, and togetherness live so close to the darkest stretch of the year. Almost as if we are meant to be reminded that darkness is not something to fear—but something to move through together.

The Turning Point

On the winter solstice—the longest night of the year—something subtle but powerful happens.

The turning begins.

Not dramatically. Not all at once. But steadily.

Minute by minute, the days begin to grow longer again. The change is almost imperceptible at first, but it is real. Light starts its slow return.

As a grower, I trust this rhythm deeply. Seeds rest before they grow. Roots strengthen in the dark. Renewal always follows dormancy.

What the Gardens Teach Us About Rest

In the book All Creation Waits, the natural world reminds us that winter is not an interruption—it is essential. Seeds, roots, and soil rely on darkness and cold to prepare for what comes next.

History shows us this truth as well. During the "year without a summer" in 1816, caused by a distant volcanic eruption, crops failed and communities suffered—not because winter existed, but because the natural rhythm was disrupted.

In the garden, winter rest is not optional.

Many flowers will not bloom without it.

Tulips, for example, require around fifteen weeks of cold temperatures below forty degrees in order to bloom. Ball alliums need the same deep chill, as do tall delphiniums. And beloved peonies? Without winter, they would give us leaves—but no flowers at all.

Cold and darkness are part of their development.

They are not punishment.
They are preparation.

The garden teaches us that rest is not wasted time. Darkness is not failure. Waiting is not the end of the story.

What looks like stillness on the surface is often essential work happening underneath.

This is the season of celebration! As we inch closer to Christmas my heart begins to lighten.

If this season feels heavy for you, I hope you’ll meet it gently. There is no need to rush yourself into brightness or productivity. Nature isn’t asking that of us right now.

The days are already turning.

Light is already returning.

And when spring comes—as it always does—the garden will respond.

Until then, may these winter days be a time of rest, warmth, and quiet hope.

— Ella

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