Seasonal journal · winter
The garden under snow
What I notice, what I look forward to and what I learn while the garden rests
In winter, the garden doesn’t disappear — it just withdraws under a layer of snow and silence. It’s the season when I have less to do, but I still go outside almost every day, just to look. Without the colors of summer and without the tasks that called me from one corner to another, this place suddenly seems simpler and calmer to me.
I’m no longer looking for a new flower or a bud about to open. I look at the light on the snow, the bare branches and the outlines of my flower beds. The garden has a different kind of beauty now.
Shapes without leaves
Without foliage, the structure of the garden shows more clearly. The mounded roses, the canes of the climbing roses tied to their supports and the branches of the fruit trees sketch things that summer hides. I notice a dead branch I’ll need to check, a leaning support or an empty spot where a new plant might fit.
Not all these observations turn into tasks right away. Some stay just thoughts for spring. Winter helps me see what’s missing, but also understand that not every empty space needs filling.
Tracks in the snow
For a few hours, the snow keeps stories I wouldn’t otherwise know. Fox tracks on the street, the tiny footprints of birds near the spot where I put out seeds, sometimes deer tracks at the edge of the garden. When I go out in the morning, I find that the place wasn’t empty at all overnight.
In summer, among the flowers and leaves, it’s easy to believe I’m the one deciding everything that happens here. Winter reminds me, very discreetly, that I share the garden with a whole world.
A quiet that isn’t empty
I like to think of this time as a pause. For a while, I can let the garden simply be a garden.
A map revealed by the thaw
As the snow retreats, the differences between the corners of the yard become more visible. The sunny side uncovers before the shady one, and in the low spots the moisture lingers longer. These observations connect with what I’ve already learned about the slope and soil of my place.
But I don’t take the first patch of thawed ground as a sure start of spring. In Bran, a bright day can be followed by more cold nights. Between my wish to start and the right moment for the plants, there’s sometimes room for a little patience.
What I’m waiting for
I’m waiting for the first green breaking through the white, the snowdrops and the small signs that tell me the season is changing. Until then, I leaf through my notes from past years and think about what went well, what I’d move and what’s worth leaving alone.
Winter doesn’t give me answers to every question. But it gives me time to ask them better. And when the garden starts again, I greet it with the same joy as meeting someone dear after a long absence.
How do you look at your garden in winter?