Actually, it all began in December. On Dec. 21, we reached the end of our long exhalation and paused for a moment before taking a new breath. Then, with the first longer day, our natural world clicked quietly into waxing mode, and the cycle of expansion began again. While the subtle poetry of the turnaround may have eluded us, we nevertheless celebrated the return of the sun in our inimitable style, which is to say, in a frenzy of consumerism and excess.

Now, in the silence and calm of January, we can feel the change. Energy is gathering. Gentle at first, the movement towards spring is underway. If we sit still for a moment, we can already feel the stirring of the unseen, the magic of the invisible soon to be manifest. But it’s not here yet! We still have time to relax, to meditate.

We are lucky to have winter. It puts an end to things. It allows for change, invites us to try again. January signifies the birth of a fresh new moment, uncluttered and pristine. Anything is possible, nothing is decided, all is potential.

We are lucky to have gardens. In our civilization we have precious little direct contact with nature — to our detriment, and to the detriment of the natural world. At least in our gardens we can experience first hand what it means to be part of the web of nature.

In our northern hemisphere we are lucky to have winter gardens. The winter garden is a dramatic display of impermanence. Last year’s garden is history. And thank goodness for that. What a mess it was, anyway. We remark that change is OK, even desirable. Imagine if the roses never stopped blooming? What a nightmare! No time or place for the other flowers. No delight to be found in endless unstoppable roses.

In the mysterious winter garden, things are not always as they seem. That which appears dead may soon be quite alive, reminding us how, in summer, that which appears quite alive is as good as gone. Seeing this happen over and over in the garden, and noticing that it is not terribly problematic, we learn to have a little acceptance, a little trust. Resisting natural laws, we observe, is pointless.

Entering the present moment is easier in the garden than it is at the office. Everything in the garden is so patently fleeting. The flower we don’t enjoy today won’t be around next week. Then, too, there is beauty in the garden. Beauty catches our attention, pulls us out of our frenetic minds and connects us to the moment as it is occurring. But it is the winter garden, in its utter stillness, which most strongly invites us to stop, and be still ourselves.

Our winter hiatus is as ephemeral as anything else and can only be appreciated now. Look out! The accelerating momentum is poised to sweep you into spring. Today is the day to slow down, to be quiet and peaceful. Today is the day to begin anew.