December is for slowness.

I'm taking my own advice.

I haven’t had the energy to put together a gift guide this year.

(Here are links to the ones from 2023 and 2022, updated with The Uncomplicated Gardener, since it came out this year.)

Or to edit photos.

(I rarely have that energy—I think I’m going to stop doing it next year.)

Or to show you all the ways we’ve been eating homegrown Meyer lemons.

Or to post pictures of the wreath I made—my first one homemade—out of creeping juniper that needed the trim, and holly leaves and berries that were annoying encroaching the space we need to walk when we get out of the car in our driveway.

Or the way the rosemary, oregano and cayenne peppers I’ve been drying and have yet to store in jars actually fit in with our Christmas decor.

Fall brought so much sadness, and I feel like I missed that season altogether.

It hits me every December, when I start feeling like it’s already been cold too long, that we haven’t even reached the beginning of winter yet. And from that beginning point yet to come at least 3 months of dark and cold are promised.

I remind myself: We’re allowed to want to slow things down and then to actually slow them down. We’re allowed to go to bed early simply because it’s dark, or linger longer in the morning with coffee and a throw simply because it’s cold.

Winter matters more to me now than it did when I was younger.

Since I started garden writing, I’ve taken the month of December through the holidays off. And I’m going to do that again now.

I haven’t had the energy to share that I’m mentally feeling much better, and my creativity is starting to return. I’ve been giving all my writing energy to my journal, and all my creativity to my family and work, and that’s the way I’m going to finish this year out.

I’ll see you in January, when I’m sure I’ll have a stack of seed catalogs and hopefully pretty butter lettuce growing in my raised beds.