chapter one: the cottage in winter’s hush
when the world outside sleeps, and the light within still glows.
winter morning frost on hydrangea
argent dawn
Before the sun lifts its pale edge over Birmingham, the Cottage wakes me with a quiet creak of its old floorboards, the sound a gentle reminder that winter has settled again. The air outside is cold enough to make the windows frost, though that soft Southern freeze only visits for a handful of mornings each year. Still, it’s enough to turn the fields silver.
I strike a match and light the winding candle on the kitchen table. Its light pools warmly on the wood grain, carrying a thin ribbon of honeyed scent on the air.
This is how I begin every winter morning: slowly, with intention, with warmth.
Beside me, Sokka stretches his paws toward the fire, blinking at me with the soft approval only a well-rested cat can grant. He makes a slow circle on his blanket and settles again, humming a low purr that feels like part of the Cottage’s own murmuring rhythm.
tea and company
I fill the kettle and choose my tea, a ritual that feels like choosing my state of mind; a quiet signal for the day ahead. Some mornings call for something bright and herbal, others for something deep and earthy. Today, winter wants stillness. I brew the darkest one. Should you wish to carry a bit of this morning with you, I’ve gathered the pieces that shaped it later in these pages.
Outside, the first feathered visitors appear. The crows take their familiar posts in the front garden, dark silhouettes holding court in the gray dawn. A red-shouldered hawk watches from its usual branch, a silent sentinel over the hidden flower fields.
The Cottage seems to take it all in with me.
sokka the resident cottage cat curled on a blanket
soft vignettes
There is a certain kind of quiet symphony that only winter can make. Even without the bold blooms and rich colors of the other seasons, the winter world composes it’s own beautiful melody. The curves of a bare branch, the rhythm of the mourning doves as they take flight, the warm amber glow where candlelight meets wood grain… everything becomes its own hushed dance.
I’ve always been drawn to the hidden grammar of shape and line. Even the still-warm cup at my side has its own tranquil architecture. The Cottage seems to know this, nudging me toward small scenes it wants me to notice. The way morning light glimmers through old wavy glass, the soft shadow of steam rising from my mug, the embers from this morning’s fire still glowing.
Sokka occasionally lifts his head to follow my gaze. I think he, too, sees the arrangements the Cottage makes in the still hours.
Winter slows the world enough that these small compositions have room to breathe.
It’s in these moments that I remember: the Cottage has always been a silent collaborator. I merely arrange; it reveals.
winter floral remnants in the design studio
the flower studio
Later, I slip into my design studio where the air is cool and full of artifacts from this season’s faded flora. Dried blooms hang from the walls: strawflower, trailing amaranth, goldenrod plumes that look like captured sunlight. Their colors have softened in winter, but their shapes remain true, holding their own memories of the season before.
In Alabama, winter doesn’t bury the land; it lightly blankets it. Outside the studio windows, the garden beds work silently beneath the thin rime, composing the earliest hints of what will return first. The tulips preparing for their quiet crescendo, the daffodils whispering just beneath the soil, and the first hellebore buds that mark the earliest shift in the season’s color palette.
Visiting floral artists often tell me they love seeing flowers in these liminal moments, when they’re not yet themselves but more like a promise. I understand. The Cottage and I plotted the year’s color long ago, tucking promises into the soil that would awaken in their own time.
fading light
The light here in Homewood is sliding into its final winter solstice descent. Outside the Cottage, foxglove and sweet peas wait in stillness before their spring recital with the tulips and daffodils. Soon, anyone wandering the beds for early color will discover the small, steady work unfolding beneath the chilled earth.
Even in winter’s deepest hibernation, something here is always astir. Tomorrow, I suspect the Cottage will have something new to show me.
winter tea on the keeper’s tray
bits & bobs from this chapter
Below are objects and treasures I reach for during my winter routine at the Cottage — all thoughtfully chosen for daily dawn rituals, cozy winter essentials, and slow living to savor each moment. Also wonderful for gift ideas to enhance optimal winter comfort.
tea & morning rituals
In the quiet hours before dawn, the Cottage asked for stillness: a candle lit, a kettle warming, a cup held close. These are the tools that welcomed that winter hush, the same revered objects I reach for when the air frosts the windows and the day begins slowly.
warmth & light
The morning’s first glow came not from the sun but from soft flames flickering against old wood. While Sokka curled into his blanket by the fire, I wrapped myself in quiet warmth of my own. These simple pieces of light and comfort shaped the golden hush of my dawn.
winter cottage details
Every morning ritual has its little accoutrements. The tray that holds a warm mug, the cloth that catches stray droplets, the honey jar that sweetens morning tonics. These companions gathered around me as I watched winter’s light settle across the Cottage.
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The winter hush settles in. I’ll return when the Cottage has something new to share.
