The Book that Became Communion — why I Wrote to Katherine May

I’ve only written to an author once, though as a child I drafted many letters to my heroes. I remember scrawling them, filling them with illustrations, weighing up which of the mundane details of my life might amuse or charm their readers. I remember the ritual of hiding them just as soon as I’d finished writing them. Stuffing them in the back of a cupboard, or the bottom of a backpack, where I couldn’t be embarrassed by my open earnestness.

Then, I read Wintering — The Power of Rest and Retreat, by Katherine May.

Published in early 2020, the book is about life’s ‘fallow periods’ and the ritual of ‘wintering’. May begins the book by writing about her difficult fallow period after leaving her lecturing role. Her personal reflections are then used as a reference point to explore this idea of ‘wintering’ as part of the human condition, the natural world and myth. Wintering debuted at the perfect time to provide solace on both a mass and individual scale, becoming even more poignant in lockdown.

Personally, I found one particular aspect of the book incredibly moving. In it, May describes learning to live with illnesses, and trying to develop a better understanding of how Asperger’s affects her. She begins to unravel her opinions of her fallow period from shame, instead exploring how she can utilise it to develop habits of self-care.

This arc resonated with me deeply. At the time of reading the book, I was in my own winter season with my neurodivergence. I had lost two jobs since graduation, due to difficulties navigating health and neurodivergence in the workplace. I’d began to gather tools and plans in preparation for an upswing. But this upswing often proved too difficult to visualise. My failures and flaws seemed as clear as ice.

May’s book offers the best kind of ‘cold comfort.’ Though it maintains that wintering only lasts for a season, it acknowledges that it can be a long one, sometimes extended by isolation and self-doubt. It reminds us that our personal winters serve a higher, older purpose, than our worrying about them ever could.

Many books have comforted me. But this book offered such profound understanding that I had to overcome my embarrassment and let the author know how grateful I was for it. Due to my terrible handwriting, I also created a digital copy of the letter I wrote. I found the file and used it to help me write this.

Seeing my letter for the first time in over a year, I saw that it was just as self-indulgent as my childhood letters I never allowed to try to reach their heroes. I wrote it, not to celebrate May’s brilliance, but rather to let her know — your book has served as a communion. Like I believe is the intent of all the world’s best books. Or, in the words that I used at the time:

‘‘It’s the kind of book I want to desecrate with love: highlight, scribble over, dialogue with in the margins. It is achingly beautiful. I am so grateful for your having written it. Your words reflect the beauty of the harshest season. A pure delight.’’

Thank you.