December Notes

December, gathered in pieces.

December rarely arrives all at once.
It comes in pieces.

A wreath hung late in the afternoon, when the light is already slipping. A pot of soup left to simmer while the house fills with other sounds—music, footsteps, the closing of doors. The steady arrival of cards in the mail, each one a small marker of another household pausing, too.

This season has been made up of such snippets—nothing grand or orchestrated—just the accumulation of moments that signal a turning inward.

Mornings begin more slowly now. The kettle goes on before the day does. I find myself standing a little longer at the window, watching frost lift from the field, or birds argue over the feeder. There is comfort in these repeated rituals, the ones that ask very little of us beyond attention.

The house carries signs of the season in quiet ways. Evergreen clipped from the garden. A stack of books pulled closer to the chair by the fire. Candles lit not for effect, but for the pause they offer— a soft glow to return to during the day.

One night this week, I woke in the dark at three in the morning—that hour when you feel the weight of the hours ahead. Restless, my thoughts adrift, I reached for a book I had recently purchased, Quietly Wild — Poems, Photographs, and Rituals to Mark the Seasons by Alix Klingenberg. It has stayed with me these past days—the way certain writing does, quietly insistently.

There is a passage in Quietly Wild that felt especially fitting at that moment. A short meditation to welcome in winter:

“Imagine now that you are walking out of your home tonight. The laughter and the lights, the stress and the expectation of the holiday season fade into the distance as you wander into the darkness alone…You look up now and see a vast blanket of stars. They go on forever. And for a moment, you stand transfixed.”

I closed the book, laid it gently by my side, and imagined myself stepping through our bedroom door into the winter night. The crunch of snow beneath my feet. A coyote calling somewhere beyond the field. The sky vast and crowded with stars as I walked out into the inky dark.

At the edge of the woods, shining orbs watched—deer paused, their presence felt more than seen.

For a moment, everything was still.

Hours later, I stirred to a new dawn, grateful for that small meditation, certain it will stay with me through the winter evenings ahead.

As December continues to unfold, there are a few simple things I have loved lately—small comforts I find myself returning to, and ones you might enjoy as well.

—Reading the Seasons: Books Holding Life and Friendship Together by Australian bibliotherapists, Germiane Leece and Sonay Tsakalakis. The book unfolds through an exchange of letters — thoughtful reflections on life, friendship, and the books that accompany us through different seasons. The Bookshelf chapter is a keeper, especially if you are looking for your next book to read.

— Flameless 8” Window Candles with a remote— ordered by mistake and now a quiet blessing in these long, dark days. They glow warmly as the house settles into evening. Think beyond the window; there are many places where soft light belongs.

—Harry Potter, still lingering after Thanksgiving movie nights. Enough so that I added a Cozy Hogwarts playlist to my Spotify rotation— alternating between Christmas music and a little magic-school ambience.

— An Advent calendar from My French Country Home— beautifully and thoughtfully created. What I love most is the reminder that it offers: that an Advent calendar of any kind can be a daily joy. Small rituals, repeated. A candle lit. A poem read aloud. A moment noticed.

Small things, really. But gathered together, they shape the days.

Perhaps that is what I am most drawn to this season—the exchange itself. Words passed between people. Notes left behind. Books that feel less like instruction and more like correspondence, reminding us that life is lived best in conversation, across time and distance.

For now, I am letting December be a collection rather than a conclusion. Small scenes. Familiar comforts. A season observed, piece by piece.

As the year draws to a close, I hope you find moments of quiet amid the gathering and a sense of steadiness—rooted in home, memory, and the season itself.

Wishing you a warm and peaceful holiday and the gentlest turn toward the year ahead.

Jeanne xx