mixtape no. 5: wintering
life updates, links, photos, inspiration
Welcome to another edition of the mixtapes: a moodboard/smorgasbord/amalgam/curation of the ideas, media, activities, and vibes that have been dominating my mind and life of late.
In my last mixtape I wrote about the ways that autumn feels like a return: to our memories, to our bodies, to the earth itself, and how the dramatic ecological shifts of the season animate and illuminate time — inviting a readjustment to our own cycles, a reorientation to place, and a rooting of ourselves somewhere between our own endings and beginnings.
If autumn is the return, this winter, to me, feels like restoration. After the activity and hustle of the holidays have passed and the fireworks of the new year have faded, deep January feels like a long exhalation into an important quiet and stillness. The action slows down, we huddle around something warm, and the naked trees, sparse calendars, and snowfalls that swallow sound all leave an absence that feels more and more like the presence of something.
Plants and animals don’t fight the winter; they don’t pretend it’s not happening and attempt to carry on living the same lives that they lived in the summer. They prepare. They adapt. They perform extraordinary acts of metamorphosis to get them through. Winter is a time of withdrawing from the world, maximising scant resources, carrying out acts of brutal efficiency and vanishing from sight; but that’s where the transformation occurs. Winter is not the death of the life cycle, but its crucible.
-Katherine May, Wintering
Here on the coast of Maine, long shadows cast cross thatches over the land, grass the color of sand juts up in tufts along the marshes, while sand the color of rock stretches far into a wild ocean that’s pushed and shoved by an invisible, wicked wind. Capillaries of trees dotted with tiny tight buds reach into the pale sky, lichens emboss stone and bark, and blankets of fresh snow give away the secrets of the forest with paths made by foot, hoof, and paw. Tones are muted, silence abounds, but abundance comes in the form of lavish, layered texture.
I’ve been enthralled by this season’s stark beauty. It’s the first ‘real’ winter I’ve experienced in many years, one I was secretly nervous I’d tire of quickly after living for so long in the mild temps of Seattle and the eternal sun of the tropics. But I truly haven’t tired of any of it — the patterns and palettes have enchanted me, wholly.
But they’ve also had a heaviness hanging around them. Fire, war, the singular physical incarnation of the worst aspects of humanity sitting in the highest seat of power, the list goes on. I’ve found myself vacillating between bursts of creative inspiration and a fear for so much that might lie ahead — energized by the cold and the quiet, sunk into the mud of despair.
Under the protective atmosphere of winter, in the spaces left empty, I’ve been leaning into an appreciation and practice for that which restores me to baseline, to my primary settings. The basics are what I find myself longing for and reaching for, above all else these days:
Play. Pleasure and movement and joy, living more from my body than my mind. Hobbies and dancing and learning. Vulnerability. A nurturing of the wild parts, the scary parts, the shy or shamed parts, an invitation for all of me to show up and try. Art. Creative expression and making things with my hands. People. Collaborations and conversations, laughter and listening. Groups and clubs and classes and phone calls and postcards and dinners. Slowness. Candlelight, the library, dreaming, writing. Quiet and rest over noise and busyness, homemade over store-bought, handmade over mass-produced.
I’m finding that these simple things can go a long way in keeping me soft, attuned, joyful, and connected, even (especially) when things feel heavy.
Doing those deeply unfashionable things—slowing down, letting your spare time expand, getting enough sleep, resting—is a radical act now, but it is essential. This is a crossroads we all know, a moment when you need to shed a skin. If you do, you’ll expose all those painful nerve endings and feel so raw that you’ll need to take care of yourself for a while. If you don’t, then that skin will harden around you.
-Katherine May, Wintering
On that note, here is a collection of things that have caught my eye or ear lately, shared in the hope that you find some solace, inspiration, or restoration here, too.
What I’m reading:
. “Sometimes, in devastation, we are both destroyed and made anew.”Please, Stop Playing Music Everywhere by
. Parts from this essay haven’t left my mind since I first read it several weeks ago.. This is a great read exploring (another) cost of the informational avalanche we are all buried under.How to Lean into Life Offline in 2025 by
.I’m always reading several books at once (and my TBR pile is STEEP), but I just finished this one and really enjoyed it:
What I’m up to:
In an effort to get to know my community and my new place, I’ve signed up for a variety of local, in-person classes through the last month or two. Sound meditations, guided forest bathing, but far and away my new favorite has been ecstatic dance. Even though free dance, hoop dancing, and embodied flow states in general have been a part of my daily life for a long time now, there’s something extra special about sharing this experience with a group of strangers. Highly recommend.
Some more snaps from my walks:
What I’m listening to:
As I mentioned, music has been a big part of my life for dance and flow. Here’s a playlist with some of my favorite tunes for dropping in:
What I’m working on:
Over on the Rewilding podcast,
is sharing how to gently move our bodies out of agitated states through breath and attention, and later this week Danielle Bayard Jackson will talk to us about how to nurture and enrich our friendships.Thank you for reading.
xo, Taylor
I’d love to hear from you!
I really love your description of Autumn has a returning, such a lovely thought. I have been working with a water colour kit that I bought about 3 years ago. Its been a joy
Taylor, I lived in Seattle for a few years, and this is my second winter back in New England…I gotta say I miss the mild temps of the PNW! But I love the beauty you are finding in a Maine winter - a special wildness all its own.