Retreating into the slow dark season

Winter unfolds into its long shadows stretching across the day, inviting us inward. The dark season, quiet and slow, sighs, whispering to us about something we often forget: the need to stop, to rest, to be still. The world quiets and the bare trees seem to symbolise things we may have long overlooked.

“The soul needs time for its own purposes,” writes Mary Oliver, and how true this feels in these quiet months. To retreat is to step away, yes — but it is also to step toward. Toward yourself. Toward the gentle murmur of your heart, which can so often go unheard.

The practice of retreat

To retreat isn't to flee it is to pause. It is to allow yourself to inhabit the space of solitude, to rest in its softness. It is to turn down the volume of life, so the quieter voices — those of creativity, of yearning, of the self — can rise.

This season calls for a kind of courage: the courage to stop. The courage to allow yourself a moment, or perhaps more than a moment, to simply be. So often we think rest is an indulgence, that reflection is a luxury we cannot afford. But what is more necessary than listening to the rhythm of your own life?

Retreating doesn’t require a grand gesture or a faraway place. It can be a clearing in the woods or the clearing of your calendar for an afternoon. It can be found in a room, a corner, or even in the breath between tasks.

Why we need solitude

In solitude, we meet ourselves again. The busy world, for all its clamouring, distracts us from this meeting. We forget what it feels like to simply sit with our thoughts, to let them unfold like leaves on a forest floor.

The winter months press us gently toward this kind of knowing. In their stillness, they remind us that we, too, need stillness. This is a time for retreating not just from the noise of the world but from the ceaseless striving.

And when we make room for this solitude — this sacred pause — we discover that rest itself is fertile ground. Ideas rise like wildflowers after rain. Creativity stirs in its quiet way, asking that we give it a little room to just be.

How to retreat without leaving

You don’t need a distant cabin or an elaborate plan to retreat. You simply need time. Ask yourself, How much space can I offer myself? Even an hour, undisturbed, can be enough.

Start with a place. It might be a room you’ve filled with soft light and favourite objects. It might be the edge of a lake or a trail through the trees. Wherever it is, let it be a place that feels like an invitation.

Set aside this time with intention. Turn off your phone, close the door, and let the world outside wait. Then, simply listen. To your breath. To the silence. To the murmurs of something deeper, listen for something that something that feels like you.

What might this time look like?

Perhaps it looks like journaling — letting your thoughts spill onto the page, unformed but full of possibility. Perhaps it is a walk through the woods, your steps soft on the earth in a garden, maybe imagine your mind as open as the sky.

It might mean lying still, watching the way the light shifts across the room. Or closing your eyes and letting yourself drift into dreams — not the ones that come at night, but the kind that visit in quiet daylight when your mind is at rest.

Creativity may find you here, as it often does when there is space. Carl Jung reminds us that “the muse comes to us when we create a space for her.” What might she bring if you let yourself be still, alone and quiet long enough to receive her?

The gifts of retreat

When you give yourself time, you give yourself back to yourself. You may find solitude isn’t lonely; it’s the opposite. It’s where you find connection to your deepest self, to the part of you that knows, that dreams, that remembers what it is to simply be.

In this quiet, you may find some clarity — a sense of what to carry forward and what to leave behind. You may find rest, a kind of healing that doesn’t ask for effort but simply for presence. And you may find inspiration, the seeds of something new waiting to grow.

Winter is the perfect season for this kind of retreat. Its darkness isn’t; it’s a sanctuary. Its stillness isn’t absence; it can be your invitation to a place we rarely give ourselves the space or time to visit.

 Ask yourself: What does retreat look like for me? Perhaps it’s a weekend devoted to dreaming. Perhaps it’s an afternoon walk, a single hour of uninterrupted time, or a quiet moment before bed.

And as you settle into this space, give yourself permission to ask your heart what it needs. Perhaps it wants to be still. Or perhaps it wants to move, to create, to rummage through the shelves of memory and possibility. Whatever it is, let it guide you.

An invitation

The season invites you to slow down, to step back, to listen. Let this be a time of rest, of reflection, of retreat. Let it be a time to reconnect with your inner world, of deep undisturbed processing, let yourself connect to that vast inner world we all possess, where ideas bloom and the self finds its grounding.

In retreat, you might notice something you didn’t expect: that stillness isn’t always emptiness. It can bring a sense of fullness. It can be a place where life grows quiet enough to hear itself.