Emerging From the Fog of Winter
And embracing the freshness of spring.
It’s starting to feel like spring. Tender shoots in varying colors of green push their way out of recently softened soil, thanks to rain that finally came after the driest start to winter ever recorded. The birds are singing, the fields that surround our house are carpeted with a blanket of new verdant green that could make you cry how hopeful it looks, and I feel the inner fog that descends upon me each winter start to lift its gray veil.
Every year I tell myself this will be the winter I’ll make it through without succumbing to the dulling, suffocating fog of the coldest season of the year. Don’t get me wrong: I love Southern California winters. I’m a winter-born child. I love the early nights, where a fire isn’t just encouraged; it’s necessary. I love being able to see the physical transition of the seasons in the form of trees devoid of their greenery and adornment, standing naked and dark against the pewter skies. I love the rain, the the early morning fog, the sleepiness that pervades every day, singing the siren song of another nap, another early bedtime. Winter is the season of puzzles, reading books by candle light, game nights and daydreams.
What I don’t love is the false purpose we’ve given the final season of the calendar year. Winter is the season of “the holidays”, which is my least favorite part of the year. Winter means more accidents on the roads, thanks to drivers who won’t slow down, weather be damned. Winter is meant to be the season of cocooning, slowing down, going inward - all three things necessary and at times, enjoyed - but that which are totally antithetical to the work that “has to” get done, per society’s orders. In a season that begs, “slow down, rest” I, and society say, “Nay. We have shopping to finish, gifts to wrap, parties to throw, deadlines to meet, articles to write, family to entertain….”
Biologically, winter should be the time our species goes at its slowest pace. Take a cue from the birds and beasts: they’re not building their nests in the dead of winter. Adding new throw pillows and decorations. Or hosting all their bird and beast cousins for a party. They’re mostly sleeping, or doing a little quiet foraging. The natural world and its inhabitants understand that winter is the time to slow down; spring will come again, and with it new opportunities to move, shake, accomplish. And yet, here we are as humans, shoving every last iota of energy into making winter prosperous and busy. Going against our nature. Defying what our bodies and minds crave. If we’re animals like everything else, why don’t we act like it?
And so a grayness sets in. A grayness of mood, of motivation. We really should not set new goals and resolutions on January 1st, although the the calendar year (another man-made construct) tells us to, but listen to the natural world as it tells us to wait. The true new year doesn’t begin until March, and is aligned with the beginning of spring. Wouldn’t you feel so much more motivated to accomplish your goals with the sun shining and new life sprouting up every place you look? I would. Therefore I ignore January 1st’s demands and wait until spring to start fresh. Like the bulbs that are scattered around our garden. They’re over twenty years old, and each year, like clockwork, begin their journey from the soft folds of the brown earth to the surface, stretching and growing and bursting with color and hope.
Just because I’m aware of the falsity and pressure that pervades human wintertime, doesn’t mean I’m immune to it. I dream of hosting a Christmas party when I should be dreaming, period. I tell myself I can push through - it’s for the kids. The grandparents. My own memories. I do enjoy aspects of it - but don’t addicts enjoy aspects of their drug of choice? Shouldn’t we all try and break the hold that winter and its accompanying full schedule have on us?
And so, as the first few weeks of spring emerge and winter fades into just a memory, I feel myself coming out of a fog I hardly knew I was in. My mind is sharper, my creativity is awakened and I feel a lightness in my chest and heart; I think they call it hope. As the seasons turn once more, I turn with them, growing again after a winter of “rest”.
The grayness of winter turns my world gray because I allow it, because I choose to move with the rhythm of a modern world that is discordant to my own internal melody. I put the pressures of the external ahead of the needs of the internal, and am only aware of my sacrifice when my clear spring eyes turn back to look upon the last few months that felt like a daze. Hindsight is 20/20, after all. I plan to enjoy this new spring, this blooming world. And maybe next winter, I’ll actually slow down the way I ought to.
We’ll see.