Tending Hearth and Heart
In The Bleak Midwinter Thoughts on slowing down, honoring our rhythms,
and finding warmth together in this darker season.
Seasons Greetings dear friends,
Whether you live locally or farther away, I sincerely hope this message finds you and yours doing well and experiencing as much of the joy and blessing that the midwinter holiday season brings. It has indeed been a busy time for us here at Imprint, and we remain deeply grateful for the support and encouragement you have shown us throughout this past year—especially during such a vital season for indie bookstores like ours. Our commitment to shopping local is the very best thing we can do for preserving the integrity and character of our beloved small town and it continues to be a blessing and a privilege to be of service to you and our community in this way. Thank you.
In many of my recent encounters, I’ve noticed a theme—a thread of connection between us that feels resonant and perhaps even illuminating. What rises up in me through the day-to-day tending of this bookshop often seems to echo what many others are feeling as well, and I’m reminded that these musings belong as much to the community as they do to me. Several of you have graciously shared that something in these newsletters touches on what has been stirring in your own hearts and minds, even when it feels difficult to name. That kind of reflection feels humbling and deeply encouraging, especially in a season that invites us to pay closer attention to what is happening beneath the surface of our lives. It reminds me how connected we truly are, and how meaningful the work we are doing—together—can be.
So many of these conversations begin with the question, “How are you doing?” And lately, that feels like such a can of worms, does it not? Perhaps the more honest question is: how well are we holding everything we’re carrying?How well are we tending to the small, vulnerable places inside us amid so much that gives us genine cause for concern? Given the ongoing unraveling of our social fabric and the overall pace we seem unable to slow, the question feels bigger than our allotted time allows. What I really want to ask is, How is your heart? And yet I wonder how many of us feel equipped to answer with the introspection that question deserves especially over a busy checkout counter. Still, I ask it with sincere interest and care: how is your heart doing this season?
As the holidays approached, I noticed just how little transition there was this year between the steady churn of summer and the rush of fall and winter festivities. There was no pause, no soft landing—simply a continuous hum of tasks and obligations. And yet throughout, I kept hearing a quiet voice reminding me that this way of living is not all that congruent with the natural world. Isn’t it ironic that, as plants and animals take shelter and enter dormancy, we humans pile even more onto our plates at this time of year? The decorations must go up, the kitchen fills with complicated food projects that may even come with a hint of family trauma, our homes demand to be “holiday ready,” and we say yes to more gatherings and more expectations—even as the animal within us longs to slow down, to nest, to hibernate.
And while I do love all that the holidays bring (especially on a sensory level), there is a deeper part of me that wants nothing more than to match my nature with nature—to retreat, to rest, to enter my own version of a bear’s winter den. Obviously, that isn’t terribly realistic when you work in retail, nor is the culture set up to support true rest. And if you have children, you know that “slowing down this year” rarely aligns with their bright-eyed anticipation of all the magic that is promised to follow. Growing up, the holidays in my family were often frenetic and stressful—shaped by financial strain, seasonal affective disorder, and the pressure to perform a version of holiday joy that didn’t always match our reality. Even now, a decade after my mother’s passing, I notice how easily I adopt those same expectations for myself, hoping to recreate the feeling of “a perfect holiday,” even without young children to impress or wish lists to fulfill.
Lately, I’ve been asking myself: how can I slow it down, even for one afternoon, one evening, one moment at a time?
So, I’m interested in learning from others about the traditions they hold dear and what brings them meaning during this season. A close cousin recently shared that her mother began observing Advent by gathering around the tree on the four Sundays leading up to Christmas—candles lit, a fire burning, carols playing—with no expectation other than to slow it down for a long reverent minute and allow the senses to settle. This simple ritual appeals to me deeply, and while I haven’t been able to observe it as devotedly as my spirit might prefer this year, it has nonetheless offered a gentle interruption to the frenzy, creating a small pause within the week before I return to the swirl of downtown holiday shopping. I may not be able to hibernate, but I do recognize that there exists a choice to build slowness and reverence into my days—now, and at any point throughout the year.
I’m also finding myself looking more intentionally to my Scandinavian ancestry for guidance (talk about a people who know how to winter), hoping to learn from traditions that feel more rooted, more mindful, and far less commercialized. Our annual holiday gathering happened to coincide with St. Lucia’s Day this year—a feast day honoring the bringing of light, hope, and sustenance into dark times—and as I attempted homemade Swedish meatballs, I found myself thinking of my great-grandmother, Anna Blomgren, and the lineage of traditions she may have carried with her from the Old World. Winter handicrafts, working with felt and embroidery, reading by soft light, handwritten greeting cards sent via good old fashioned snail mail, and filling the house with candles as the darkest night approaches—these small gestures help me reconnect with a quieter, deeper sense of the season, practices I’m still learning how to weave into my life with steadiness and sincerity.
It has also made me wonder:What are the meaningful, non-commercialized traditions or inherited practices that help you feel connected to your own ancestry or sense of place?
And from that same spirit of attentiveness, I find myself reflecting on how this season continually invites us toward care beyond ourselves. How might we offer warmth or light to someone nearby who needs it? Where can we bring a measure of comfort or joy to those who may be moving through their own dark winter?
Each time I pause to recognize just how much I have to be grateful for—the abundance always flowing in and around me—it feels like a quiet recalibration. This is the spirit I hope to bring into my days, into my interactions, into the coming year.
I also want to let go of any self-imposed expectations for perfection. I saw how painful those expectations were for my own mother, and while honoring our ancestors through the traditions they passed down is meaningful, it should only be done in ways that feel aligned with who we are today. Let’s resist the pressure to keep up with an imagined ideal or spend money on more things if it means losing the simple joys that make this season luminous.
Because in the end, the magic of this time of year is not found in the perfect execution of our plans, but in the quiet, imperfect moments where we allow ourselves to be present—where light meets darkness, where rest meets longing, where gratitude softens the edges of what is hard.
As winter deepens and the nights stretch long, my hope is that you find pockets of stillness that remind you of your own inherited resilience and sources of warmth. May you notice the light returning little by little. And may you feel, in some small and steady way, that we are navigating this season together—held by community, connected by story, and illuminated by the shared work of tending our hearts in dark and beautiful times.
Your presence—whether in the shop, at our events, or simply through reading these words—continues to remind us why this work matters and how deeply a bookshop depends on its community.
As we move toward the light of a new year, we hope you’ll join us for one January’s two book clubs or for one of the many author events we are busy planning for 2026. Stay tuned for more details!
Until then, may warmth, rest, and good books accompany you through winter’s quiet days.
To your heart(h) from mine,
be sure to take good care this season,
John & the Imprint Bookshop Team
Books for the Quiet, Deepening Days of Winter...
How to Winter: Harness Your Mindset to Thrive on Cold, Dark, or Difficult Daysby Kari Leibowitz
A thoughtful companion for reframing how we move through the hardest months of the year, blending psychology, Nordic wisdom, and practical guidance to help us cultivate resilience and even joy in the depths of winter.
Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Timesby Katherine May
A tender meditation on slowing down and honoring life’s inevitable seasons of difficulty, offering a gentle invitation to rest and recalibrate.
Rest is Resistance (A Manifesto) by Tricia Hersey
In this groundbreaking manifesto, Tricia Hersey challenges the toxic grind culture that demands constant productivity, reframing rest as a spiritual right, an act of liberation, and a pathway back to our inherent worth. Hersey invites readers to imagine a life shaped not by exhaustion, but by presence, care, and collective healing.
We Will Rest!: The Art of Escape by Tricia Hersey
Hersey’s newest work extends her vision by offering gentle, practical guidance for carving out moments of respite within even the most demanding seasons. Through stories, prompts, and soulful wisdom, she explores the small, intentional escapes that replenish the spirit and help us reclaim rest as an everyday practice.
What I Am Currently Reading...
Against the Machine: On the Unmaking of Humanity by Paul Kingsnorth
A compelling meditation on the rise of mechanization and what we stand to lose—spiritually, culturally, and relationally—when we surrender too much of our lives to technology. It’s a book that invites deep self-inquiry about how we choose to inhabit the world and what it might mean to reclaim a more rooted, human way of being.
What We Can Know by Ian McEwan
McEwan’s latest novel is a beautifully crafted exploration of truth, memory, and the fragile architecture of what we believe to be real. With his characteristic precision and emotional acuity, he examines the tensions between certainty and doubt in ways that feel both timely and timeless.
Looking Ahead to 2026 at Imprint Bookshop...
And a poem to end on...
THE DARKLING THRUSH
by Thomas Hardy (1900)
I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter’s dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.
The land’s sharp features seemed to be
The Century’s corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervourless as I.
At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.
So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.
