The summer before my husband, Steve, and I moved to the Vineyard, I asked a young shopkeeper what it was like to live here in the deep winter. I imagined starless nights, wet boots and a merciless wind —all of which were imagined correctly with a few unimagined ones thrown in.

She told me winter on the Vineyard was her favorite time, but you needed a project. After three winters here, I’ve settled into the Vineyard’s rhythms, moods and its irreverence for predictability. I know what’s coming, sort of. Until the holidays are over, I’m merrily bustling, stringing lights and mulling things like cider and thoughts. I have places to be, greens to gather, winter berries to arrange. There is an energy to my outings, a to-do list sparkly as glitter, and stridently purposeful. And I get to do them in a New England village with a steeple.

In January, the serious business of settling in for the long haul of reinforced undergarments begins. It’s time to hunker down, stop with the frivolities and get back to basics. After the bustle, and the inevitable let down of the holidays, I long to simmer, like a Tuscan soup with a Parmesan rind in the broth. There’s a richness to the dark, quiet days, living in the scarcity of light that surprises me wherever it shows up.

I’ve learned to love the intermittent payoff of nature’s snow flurries or rays of sun cutting through bare-limbed woods. In winter, the ferries to and from the Vineyard are tempestuous, seemingly cutting us off from the rest of the world. The isolation is palpable and freeing, there are fewer distractions, more introspection.

And yet, although introspection is a state I love to visit, it can be hard to live there. And so I turn outward, to an ongoing winter project: me. January is perfect for this, as it both welcomes the New Year and my birthday.

My project used to be grandiose — so grandiose that I was too overwhelmed to begin. Now I am learning to forgo the grand gesture and pick up a broom. There’s always something about me that needs sweeping up.

My resolutions tend to the small and doable: savor a moment, daily kindnesses and letting go. Don’t try to save the world, instead focus on the person behind you in line at Stop & Shop.

I aspire to root in the now, a daunting task for someone who frets about tomorrows, weather patterns and my grown children’s creative career choices. I sit in front of a fire long before bed and watch the flames, listening to the snaps and pops, like a meditation, keeping me present. If I watch it burn long enough, my soul quiets.

I gravitate to stillness, puttering around in the kitchen, roasting a chicken or writing a note.

I grow fond of the unadorned and learn to forgive myself without the frills. The project of me used to be about external things — be it pounds, publications or some form of showboatiness. Now it seems more like a shedding of outworn hurts and ideas. I want to take this distilled version of myself with me through the rest of my years. Maybe that’s called acceptance — to recognize who you are without the armor on.

I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing, resting, repairing and noticing. And yet, like a poem, my winter project is invariably left unfinished. As the winter waxes and wanes, I put on my wet boots, venture into the brisk winds and begrudgingly trudge towards the light.

Robyn Goodwin lives in Vineyard Haven.