I use the period between Christmas and New Year to potter about

Host: The snow had begun to melt, leaving behind thin veins of water that glimmered across the cobblestones like fading memory. The town was quiet — the kind of quiet that exists only between years, when time seems to pause, unsure of which direction to move. The Christmas lights still hung, weary but proud, their soft glow flickering against the pale grey sky.

In a small greenhouse behind an old cottage, Jack and Jeeny stood amid rows of dormant plants, their stems wrapped in the delicate shroud of winter. The faint smell of damp soil lingered, rich and earthy — the scent of things sleeping, not dead.

On a workbench, Jeeny had left her journal open to a handwritten quote, smudged slightly by a trace of water:

“I use the period between Christmas and New Year to potter about, think and completely change my mindset. In that easy no-man's-land between Boxing Day and New Year, loins are girded and mettle readied. It is time, as we voyagers bid farewell to the old year, to fare forward.”
— Monty Don.

Jeeny: smiling faintly as she reads aloud “Isn’t that beautiful, Jack? ‘To fare forward.’ It’s so gentle and so brave at the same time.”

Jack: adjusting a small terracotta pot on the bench “It’s poetic, sure. But I don’t buy it. You can’t just ‘change your mindset’ because the calendar says so. You don’t wake up on December 27th suddenly enlightened.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But you can pause, can’t you? Reflect. That week between Christmas and New Year — it’s like a harbor before the next voyage. You can’t sail forever, Jack.”

Jack: “You know me — I prefer to keep moving. Too much stillness, and my head fills with noise.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why you never hear the silence.”

Host: A single beam of sunlight pierced through the glass roof, falling across the workbench and catching on Jeeny’s hair, turning it into a dark, shimmering river of light. Jack’s hands, rough and sure, were busy with the pots, but his eyes betrayed a kind of restlessness — the quiet battle of a man allergic to reflection.

Jack: “You know what this week feels like to me? It’s limbo. Nothing’s open, no one’s doing anything, everyone’s just pretending to rest. It’s like the world’s on pause, but no one knows how to actually breathe.”

Jeeny: “And that’s exactly what makes it sacred. It’s the in-between that matters, Jack. Between birth and death, day and night, past and future. Even the earth has her in-between — winter. She’s not dead; she’s dreaming.”

Jack: “Dreaming, or just waiting?”

Jeeny: “Waiting is a kind of dreaming — if you do it with intention.”

Host: The wind brushed against the greenhouse, a low, patient sigh. Outside, the bare trees swayed slightly, their branches whispering like old friends plotting spring. Jeeny knelt, her fingers brushing over a pot of lavender — brittle now, but still carrying the ghost of scent.

Jeeny: “Monty Don has it right — this time of year, you potter. You think. You prepare. It’s not grand or glorious. It’s quiet, earthy work — changing your mindset like you change the soil. You don’t throw away the old; you enrich it.”

Jack: “You make it sound noble — but most people just overeat, overthink, and over-promise this week. The whole ‘new year, new me’ ritual is just marketing dressed as redemption.”

Jeeny: “And yet — everyone still tries. Isn’t that something? Maybe it’s not about the success, but the gesture. The desire to renew. Even if you fail, you’ve spoken to your soul. You’ve told it, ‘I’m still trying.’”

Jack: “That’s the problem. People romanticize trying. They mistake motion for progress. You can potter all you want, but if you don’t act, nothing blooms.”

Jeeny: gently “And if you act without reflection, everything withers.”

Host: A moment of stillness hung between them, soft as mist. The faint drip of condensation from the greenhouse roof was the only sound, rhythmic and tender. Jeeny looked up, her eyes reflecting the faint gold of the winter sun.

Jeeny: “You know what I think, Jack? This in-between time — it’s not for doing. It’s for becoming. The way the soil becomes ready before it’s planted. You can’t force it; you just tend it.”

Jack: “So you’re saying we should all just sit around like dirt until something grows?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The richest soil looks lifeless, but it’s the most alive underneath.”

Jack: “You always find metaphors in mud.”

Jeeny: “And you always miss them because you’re afraid of what they mirror.”

Host: Jack exhaled, a small, reluctant laugh escaping his throat. He wiped his hands on a rag and sat opposite her on a low wooden stool. The sunlight between them had softened now, like an old photograph slowly fading at the edges.

Jack: “Alright, let’s say I give you that. You reflect, you rest, you... potter. Then what? What if the next year comes and it’s just as heavy as the last?”

Jeeny: “Then you face it with readied mettle, like Monty said. You don’t potter because you’re weak; you potter because you’re arming yourself quietly. Every small act of care, every gentle reset, it all builds something. Strength doesn’t always roar, Jack — sometimes it just breathes.”

Jack: “You make it sound like gardening the soul.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly what it is. You weed, you water, you wait.”

Jack: “And hope the frost doesn’t kill everything.”

Jeeny: “Or trust that even if it does, the roots remember how to rise.”

Host: The light outside began to fade, turning the world into a hushed watercolor of blues and greys. The greenhouse glass shimmered with condensation, tiny droplets like jewels on the surface. Jeeny lit a small candle on the bench, its flame trembling in the draft — fragile, but persistent.

Jack: “You really think people can change their mindset that easily? That one week of reflection can undo a year’s worth of damage?”

Jeeny: “Not undo. But it can reorient. It’s like turning the ship before the next storm. You don’t escape the waves; you just face them better.”

Jack: “So this week is... navigation practice?”

Jeeny: smiling “Exactly. Farewell to the old tide, ready the sails for the new.”

Jack: “You make it sound romantic.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Maybe that’s why Monty calls us voyagers. We’re all sailing into another unknown year, carrying the same ship — our selves — patched, scarred, and still floating.”

Host: The candlelight caught in the reflection of the glass, multiplying into tiny golden orbs. Jack watched them, something softening in his expression. Jeeny rested her hands on the soil before her, as if drawing strength from it.

Jack: “You know, I think I understand now. It’s not about changing overnight. It’s about remembering that you can. That the ship can still move, even after a storm.”

Jeeny: “Yes. It’s about permission — to pause, to reflect, to begin again. The world calls it a holiday, but really it’s a holy day — for the self.”

Jack: quietly “A pilgrimage of pottering.”

Jeeny: laughs softly “Exactly. The grandest journey often begins with something small — a thought, a gesture, a moment of stillness.”

Host: Outside, the sky had deepened into indigo. The moonlight began to rise, touching the garden with its faint, silver grace. Jack stood, stretching, his silhouette framed by the glass. Jeeny remained still, her hands pressed to the soil as though in quiet prayer.

Jeeny: “So, Jack — what will you fare toward this year?”

Jack: “Maybe... less noise. More meaning. Maybe learning to sit still without feeling like I’m wasting time.”

Jeeny: “That’s a good beginning.”

Jack: “And you?”

Jeeny: “To tend — both garden and heart. To trust the roots, even in the frost.”

Host: The candle burned low, its flame now steady and sure. The wind outside had quieted; even the trees seemed to be listening.

The camera would have pulled back then — the small greenhouse glowing softly against the dark, two souls wrapped in warmth and reflection, standing at the edge of a new year, ready not for certainty, but for forward motion.

And as the scene faded into silence, only Monty Don’s words seemed to echo —
A week of pottering, a lifetime of voyaging.
Fare forward.