A single red maple leaf
Spinning, swirling
Catching attention,
Stirring anticipation,
Beauty without scarcity
‘til limbs stretch, bared.
Losing what we love
We may fail to see
How empty spaces
Open hidden horizons,
Season’s reassurance.
We walk on fallow paths
Seeded with possibilities.
We are about done with winter in the south – nature is already signaling change. March announces its arrival a bit early with yesterday’s howling winds. The red maple outside my window is tipped with red buds. Dandelions persistently push though dried leaves; daffodils greet me on my walk to the park. Sitting on the park bench shaped from a fallen hickory, I consider winter’s lessons for survival.
With cues from burrowing creatures, I line my winter retreat with a stack of books, a list of movies to stream, CD’s hiding too long behind my top ten favorites choices, games I usually do not get around to playing I crochet comforters and wraps in warm colors, and delight in a variety of scarves to add more than warmth to winter wear. I pull out my highly favored fur-lined boots kept in the back of the closet for much of the year. On the coldest days I reach for my mother’s wool sweater, monogrammed with her initials.
Hoarding can also be life-giving I am very familiar with this hoarding instinct, having watched the squirrels’ frenzy of burying nuts. My lawn is covered with paw sized pits; scratched patches. Every newscaster in the northeast and much of the south sends reporters and photographers to the local hardware and grocers’ when a winter weather watch is announced. Viewers dutifully note the ritual of emptying shelves. In order to shift from surviving to thriving, I redefine the tradition of hoarding (while my pot of soup is simmering and my stash of chocolate is secure) I am hoarding gratitude. Wrapped in flannel and wool, I think about the pleasures of spiced tea, mulled cider, the snapping flame of a red cinnamon scented candle.
This year winter demands that I take an artist’s eye to a background of grey. Muted skies accent every point of color. From my reflection corner, where I read, write, and meditate, the red bird feeder that is kept inside in every other season creates a scene of vibrant activity. My kitchen window frames the suet feeder, and the frequent colorful visitors – cardinals, blue jays, black-capped chickadees, tufted titmouse, red-breasted finch, pileated woodpecker. Their song is a winter’s jubilation as though they share in my delight at frost that sparkles when the sunlight finally appears, crystal coated mornings, the dance of snowflakes leaving a sweet layer of white icing on rhododendrons and magnolias with their candle like bulbs. Evergreens stand out in sharp contrast to their deciduous earth mates, reinforcing their own survival with a careful selection on nutrients. Seasons have a tendency to build on the spirit of anticipation, and though I pass through my winter trials with an upswing in acceptance, I eager anticipate change.
My thoughts on winter are moderated by the reality that I grew up in the south, on the east coast. Snow only arrived as a rare occurrence, a fluke. I don’t recall growing tired of winter as a child. The bite of cold was never sub zero, but always chilled by ocean breeze. Perhaps I experienced winter as a settling, being warmed by a coal fire while curled on the sofa reading. I dressed over the single heating grate in the floor of a small back hallway, pulling corduroys under my school dress. On Saturdays the bean pot simmered with pintos and corn bread baked in the oven. Winter was mistletoe in the tops of trees, Christmas, candy canes and oranges in stockings. The nut bowl, with the cracker and pick made its first appearance. Walnuts were always my favorite. Hot chocolate was served with a pile of melting marshmallows, ready to stick to the upper lip. My brothers and I put soft peppermint sticks in the center of oranges and drew on delight.
With a turn of the wall calendar winter became the liturgical season of lent, a time to exchange “going without” for a few good and forgiving mercies. I learned to play chess one winter, and the card table was always up in the living room. Candy hearts and valentines messages created a spark of joy before winter departed. The beach in winter was made for walking, slowly, with plenty of time to explore the horizon, guessing what it would be like to swim to the other side, dreaming about discoveries.
Yearning is undeniably winter’s rough edge of desire, wanting the days to be something different, watching for the first chance to play baseball in the empty corner lot; waiting for the tight buds of azaleas to reveal color. Promises of spring are universal signs of hope. Restless desire for “anything but this”, however, becomes a source of discontent. Too often my memory of accepting winter for what it brings in the present moment is buried under layers of looking for change.
If you were to name the four seasons – where would you begin? Would you draw on the calendar year, answer with the early learning chants of childhood? “The four seasons are winter, summer, spring and fall.” Or is there an innate sense of life cycle that frames your understanding: Spring – new birth; summer- flourishing life; fall- harvest and letting go; wintering – cold, dark, dying? Now the circle of reasoning returns to the necessary hidden life of winter. Gestation. All that lies fallow. Browned earth, bare trees, forest hiking trails carrying the musky scent of decaying leaves. Winter dormancy is essential to survival and renewal of the life-giving processes.
Your approach to winter is a matter of perspective. In my east coast southern climate, snowbirds are found on designated mountain slopes, but the everyday reality is more often the drizzling kind of cold. You’ve heard it said. In fact I have heard myself say: “I am so done with winter.” On a late afternoon walk I recently ran into a neighbor who made this very same declaration. My first interpretation was he was planning a trip to warmer climes – where winter sits not so deep and cold. “No,” he said, “I am just heading to Maggie B’s – today is red wine.” Germinating takes some time. I have been ruminating on winter, intentionally developing a new life plan not to simply survive winter, but to thrive while lying fallow.
In truth November does a good job of preparing for the inevitable – the early sun sets leaving me no choice but to let go of my leisurely evening after dinner strolls. Meteorological winter begins December first and paradoxically arrives with its name in written lights, Garlands of white lights appear around doors and porches; draped on outdoor evergreen. Colored strands of light can be viewed through windows. Candles appear on the dinner table, the early push for holiday mood setting. And I say “bring it on.” Every bit of twinkle that lightens the darkness gives a festive touch to winter’s arrival.
Nature has its way with irony. Astronomical winter officially arrives with the winter solstice. In the Northern Hemisphere Dec. 21 may or may not be the shortest day of the year, but it’s a good average possibility. Of course the solstice – the polar tilt away from the sun is a only moment in time. A minute or two at a time, the day begins to lengthen. And herein lies the magic of surviving winter. Time is marked by our constant move forward (or around). One of my great annual delights is the moment I experience the lengthening of days. I am generally making preparations for dinner, looking out the window at the color of the sunset. Quite early in January, after all the hub of holidays has quieted and I have once again fallen into a welcomed routine, a different kind of light catches my attention. Daylight still dazzling me; the gentle quiet before the roses and golds are draped on the horizon. I see. I see. Winter is in motion.
To everything (turn, turn, turn)
There is a season (turn, turn, turn)
And a time to every purpose, under heaven
(Ecclesiastes 3:1, Pete Seeger 1950’s)
And all because the earth tilts a bit.
The truth as I know it is that while the turn of seasons is inevitable, nature has a contractual clause written in not-so fine print that says “subject to change”. Anticipated patterns can end in the unexpected. Visitors plan their trips to our ancient Pisgah Mountains and the Blue Ridge Parkway months ahead of fall’s scheduled arrival, hoping to catch the peak of a season landscaped in magnificent color. The season is sure to arrive, but nature’s rendering of color and the fullness of the leaf-bearing trees is dependent on rain, temperature, and winds.
This year the predictions of fall’s dramatic presentation have been cautious because of nature’s variables. When the fall calendar indicated the peak season should be arriving, the trees held back their spectacular showing. The ash and chestnut leaves began creating ground cover before the first cooling temperatures, while the red-toothed maples, and dogwoods, the divas of this fall’s fashion show, slowly began to provide the first peeks. Many of the yellows and gold held out for All Saints Day. I delight in whatever dabs of colors appear on nature’s canvas, while simultaneously pondering the reality that this grand presentation precedes nature being stripped to bare bones, creatures burrowing deeper, and birds migrating.
Today winds are pushing heavy gray clouds onto our mountains. Soon enough the clouds bring rain, the rain brings chill. Some bold leaves are holding tight, while plenty of limb-mates are letting go. I catch a view of a mighty oak in its orange blazer proclaiming “it’s not my turn”. When the sun’s performance is hidden behind this curtain, my thoughts take a turn towards the slow and reflective and I feel my world titling towards the moody. Befriending the day means looking for the unseen, unexpected revelation. Between yesterday and today the trees have been shaken and my horizon opens. I can now view the mountain ridges on three sides and give praise for the vision that will sustain me when this season departs. How About That!
Another Winter’s hibernation, accepting
the weight of fallowed ground,
hallowed time of preparation, stirring
stews of possibilities; listening
for changes that could not come
fast enough; absence of light,
too much grey from the start.
~~~~~~~~~
Welcomed Sun springs on unsuspecting
days, delights drowsy waterlogged senses
with new greens, easter whites, lilies
lining the landscape with resurrection,
eager robins sitting curbside during
rainstorms waiting for earthworms
washed from freshly mulched lairs.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Summer storms its way in, drowning out
picnics and mountain hikes till lazy days
push up white clover fields; daisies
and cone flowers welcome butterflies,
crepe myrtle bloom with radiance; fireflies
spin like sparklers in the top of tall oaks,
faithful moon makes a showing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Standing still on a turning planet –
such an astonishing grand scheme.
How About That 