We have seasons when we flourish, and seasons when the leaves fall from us, revealing our bare bones. Given time, they grow again.
Calling low points in life "wintering" definitely attracted me to this book. I like the cyclical aspect of the metaphor, its opposition with the notion of an eternal summer that we should aspire to even though it's impossible, but after reading this book, I have mixed feelings about it.
On one hand, I highlighted several passages, on the other hand most of the time the author's sensitivity or comparisons did nothing for me. I felt like the book remained a collection of loosely connected autobiographical passages, comparisons with animals like dormice, robins or wolves, and a few interviews of people who went through their own winters. But it never became more than the sum of its parts.