The Quiet Work of Winter

By the time Imbolc arrives, winter has usually overstayed its welcome. The garden still looks dormant, but something underneath has already shifted. The light lingers a little longer, the soil smells different when you turn it, and you can feel the season thinking about changing.

Imbolc is an ancient seasonal festival, traditionally observed around February 1, marking the midpoint between the winter solstice and the spring equinox. It has its roots in Pagan tradition and is closely associated with Brigid, an Irish goddess of fire, fertility, poetry, and craft.

Snowdrops - the first blooms that signal spring is near.

At its heart, Imbolc is about preparation. It is not about harvest or bloom, it is not a celebration of spring arriving. It is an invitation to prepare for it by clearing space, planting seeds, and laying the groundwork.

For me, that work begins with my roses.

Pruning them in late winter is one of those tasks that looks harsh if you don’t understand it. The plant is bare and vulnerable, and you are cutting away canes that took an entire season to grow. But roses thrive on being cut back hard. They need clarity, air, space, and direction - each cut encourages stronger growth later on.

I find it grounding to do this work now, when the garden offers no spectacle and there are no flowers to admire. What remains is the structure of the plant, holding the promise of future beauty.

Winter pruning done, rosehips gathered - making space for what’s next.

Around the same time, I start seeds indoors. Not because the weather is ready, but because I am. Trays line the window, soil is pressed lightly, and seeds are placed with care. These are beginnings made in faith, long before they are visible.

Seed starting at this point in the year is an intimate practice. You are tending a future that will not reveal itself for weeks, sometimes months, and all you can offer is warmth, moisture, and patience.

Here’s what I’m starting right now - the small glassine envelopes are seeds saved from last year’s garden.

This time of year always feels foundational to Rosarium. The garden is not just a source of inspiration, but a living archive where each season leaves its mark. What is pruned, what is preserved, and what is allowed to rest all shape what comes next.

As I work on our spring collection, I notice how much of this quiet winter rhythm carries into the studio. Before anything is cut, there is editing. Fabrics are laid out and reconsidered. Shapes are simplified. Details are removed as often as they are added. The process feels less like making and more like clearing space for what wants to emerge.

Like pruning roses or starting seeds, the collection begins long before anything is visible. Decisions made now about proportion, construction, and material determine how the pieces will move and live once the season arrives.

Winter asks us to tend what is unseen, and that care shapes everything that follows. In many ways, this quieter work is what makes the visible season possible.

Imbolc reminds me that growth does not begin with bloom. It begins with care.

Here’s a winter offering from me to you - a simple ritual to bring a little garden magic indoors.