Live in each season as it passes; breathe the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit, and resign yourself to the influences of each. — Henry David Thoreau
I have a habit of waking before dawn, a time when the house is blessed by quiet, interrupted only briefly by the sound of the coffee grinder and the rattle of kibble against my dog’s dish. We position ourselves, she and I, near the window to watch as the sky begins to lighten and turn the room bright in the early morning. This is precious time, a chance to sit in quiet and write uninterrupted before the sound of the street below begins to make itself known. I cherish winter mornings most, the chill in the air and the subtle beauty of darkness shifting into dawn. For the many years I lived in Southern California, winter’s advent was barely discernible, save for the shortened days and dark mornings.
Yet this morning, as I did yesterday and the day before, I stared at the blank pages of my notebook, waiting in vain for something “original” or at the very least, enticing to explore on the page. Nothing did. “I’ve got the blues,” I wrote across the top of the page, followed by “I don’t have one creative thought in my head,” then another thought written out, “I’m bored by myself.” I stared out the window, poured a second cup of coffee, and watched the sun cast a pink blush to the scattered clouds above. I checked the temperature. 34 degrees outside. Winter, I mused, is definitely on its way. That’s when I realized I enjoy a kind of perverse comfort in the absence of what I termed “creative” or “worthwhile.” There was something in those thoughts to explore.
I lobbied for our return to Canada for years, winters and all. For the time we lived in Southern California, it seemed like a losing battle. My husband loved warmth and mild weather, but I languished. I once described the climate as “relentless sunshine,” when a friend expressed puzzlement by my unenthusiastic feelings for living in what was once called an “ideal climate.” “Ideal,” however, has recently come into question as the aridity, water shortages, and wild fires increase. Our former neighbor, who called us Thanksgiving Day, told us t this year, he would be celebrating the family dinner in 90 degree heat. I was grateful to be spared such late season sweltering this year. After his call, I happily bundled up with mitts, coat, scarf and hat to walk to the neighborhood drugstore, grateful for the chill in the air, the barren trees, and feel of an approaching winter.
What is it about seasons and the human spirit? In part, I suspect my affinity for the distinct four seasons was born growing up in a small Northern California town, where each season seemed to arrive on its designated calendar date, bringing a wealth of new sensations, sights and adventures for a girl. In that climate, I felt close to Nature, my energy and spirit fed by the uniqueness of each season.
Nature’s seasons are metaphors for the human life cycle. But winter, the least hospitable of the four, is often something we simply endure or avoid. Yet it is a time important to our psyches, souls, and creative spirits. A short time ago, a friend sent me a quotation written by Fabiana Fondevilla, a Buenos Aires journalist and children’s book author. Her words touched a chord deep within me:
If we belong to the sun and its warmth, to the bud and the sprout, to the miraculous flower, we also belong to the wind, the naked branch, the cold.
The advent of winter cold is definitely here. My husband has begun to groan and complain of the colder days and nights, the dark afternoons and mornings, while I find a strange contentment and energy in them, something akin to a spiritual hibernation. Winter, as described by Jorge N. Ferrer and his colleagues in Kosmos, Journal for Global Transformation, is a time of waiting, darkness, silence and, importantly, gestation–whether it’s a germinated seed being nourished and developing roots to support its growth toward the light, or, as I complained in my notebook’s pages, our creative wells have seemed to disappear deep within.
Without doubt, human life cycles are affected by these seasonal changes. When the light changes, as it does in the winter months, we slow down a little, find it more difficult to awaken in the dark mornings, and often feel a greater sense of fatigue. A survey reported in a past issue of Psychology Today, showed over 90% of respondents felt a difference in mood, energy or behavior with the change of seasons, even having sadness or depression triggered by them, just I described having the winter “blues” as I wrote in my notebook.
Yet blues aside, winter has an important role in our lives, defined, as Ferrer and colleagues remind us, by the powerful forces at play in the darkness. It is a time that nourishes and generates new creative impulses within us just as the emergence of new life is being readied for the buds and flowers appearing in springtime. http://www.kosmosjournal.org/article/the-integral-creative-cycle/
Although the cold and snow have barely begun, it’s important to remember that in less than a month, the winter solstice arrives, marking a gradual return of the sun and promise of rebirth milder seasons ahead. For the ancients the winter solstice was a time of celebration , occurring during the period many of us now celebrate Christmas or Hanukkah. Winter darkness, as the solstice celebrations remind us, holds promise and hope. In “Winter Solstice,” poet Jody Aliesan reminds us of the promise that resides in winter’s darkness and the comfort found in the beauty of stars close together, a winter moon rising, or an owl in the distance. She describes how, out of that darkness, a sense of rebirth emerges.
already light is returning pairs of wings
lift softly off your eyelids one by one
each feathered edge clearer between you
and the pearl veil of day
you have nothing to do but live.
(From: Grief Sweat, Broken Moon Press, 1990)
Darkness arrives, in the difficult periods of our lives–serious illness, depression or loss– like Winter does in Nature. It affects the human spirit, ones triggering periods of emotional malaise, turmoil or depression. Yet this is also what Life is, filled with highs and lows, calm and storm, flowering and death. The difficulty for us lies in learning to accept those “seasons” as natural as ones Mother Nature controls. Thanks to the many men and women who have shared their experiences so honestly in our writing groups, I have become more accepting and understanding of my dark periods, better able to put things in perspective, and always, to find my way to hope, light and renewal.
You look over all that the darkness
ripples across. More than has ever
been found comforts you. You open your
eyes in a vault that unlocks as fast
and as far as your thought can run.
A great snug wall goes around everything,
has always been there, will always
remain. It is a good world to be
lost in. It comforts you. It is
(From: “Waking at 3 a.m.,” by William Stafford, in Someday, Maybe, 1973)
Writing Suggestions for the Week of November 27th:
This week, try using the metaphor of winter to reframe your experience with cancer or another difficult time in your life, a time when darkness seemed to envelope you for long periods, hope seemed to fade and you feared what was ahead.
- Did your experience a kind of “death” and rebirth?
- Move from darkness into light?
- Discover a sense of life renewed?
Or, like me, perhaps you find comfort in the quiet of dark mornings. Try describing something you love about dark winter mornings in a short poem.