Microseasons: Winter
My mind is presently residing in the here and now of things, the what's right in front of my face and what I can do about it, rather than focusing too much on what the future holds or ruminating on the past. This means fully experiencing what the mundane little pockets of midwestern life on this corner plot of land have to offer me. Mostly it's been seasonal delights, the slightest changes. I make note of their beauty, appreciating them, translating them into a tender poetry I can store up for myself when I need a little treat.
This is the red berries hanging from bare branches micro season. The slippery ice patches and slushy, barely cleared walkways. The icy lung micro season. The blowing air out to see your breath season. The scraping ice fractals off car windows season. Crunch of snow beneath buried shoes season. Cardinal and chickadee and blue jay and house sparrow season. It's the glitter of sun refracting off of untouched snow. The crisp morning frosted grass. Windows crusted with side blowing snow drifts. Of Canadian geese somehow still making their voyages this way or that. Icebergs making landfall after the river thaw. Wet snow perfect for packing into snow people. Twisted, barren trees casting shadows onto flat white surfaces. Of sliding down slick hills on sleds, finding our thrills where we can. The willow still slowly shedding her leaves.
Mostly, it's been the season of deeply craving ritual and routine. I want to sink more fully into myself, ground myself, root myself. I want to be fully tethered, anchored, secure. I am positively starving for nature, for being out directly next to the heartbeat of everything.
While in these last weeks of dedicated restoration, I notice how easily what I need flows to me because I can more aptly listen in the quiet. Inspiration flows through me like a lightning rod and I have about a dozen different projects I'm fully invested in.
There’s routine. Every morning, we bundled ourselves up against the icy winter mornings. The sun peeks up over the trees into our living room windows in dappled shapes that dance against the wall while I prepare breakfast and lunch. We steel ourselves as we swing wide the screen door and throw ourselves out into the world.
There’s nighttime winter solstice events in what has become one of my favorite places in the world. When I lived here before, I had used this location for photo shoots or the occasional wandering but never to fully know it like I do now. Since moving back, we've fully immersed ourselves in its foresty trails throughout the seasons. We crafted Yule logs, arranged evergreen wreaths and rolled beeswax candles. We walked a lantern lit trail through the dark woods while being dusted with steady snowfall to sit by a fire and tell stories before we tossed in our Yule logs and thereby our wishes for the coming year.
Everything in my life revolves around meaning making. Since finishing Jung - The Key Ideas, I have to believe it's my unconsciousness' way of trying to be known to my aware Self. This season, and all seasons, are no exception. It used to be a time of tradition regarding religious beliefs pertaining to particular holidays, and while those are good and we definitely observe those too, I'm also digging up the roots. I don't accept anything at face value anymore, my traditions must have meaning. Observing the solstice honors this love of nature while also making sense of how I can best enjoy the growing darkness and harness it for growth.
What I'm interpreting from the winter season is this: it's essential, and perhaps even unavoidable, to honor our cycles. We must accept new beginnings, change, transformation as it comes and gently guides us up to higher ground. We are invited to go inward during the winter solstice, both physically and somatically. We're given opportunity to dream, to burn down, to rebuild, to create spark, to fortify, to reflect.
The work I intend to do is grounded in cycles and seasons, always. I will remain intentional about the ways I tell the stories, the ones that will perhaps be told someday around a campfire in the middle of the woods while snow gently falls.
In the winter calendar season, nearly to the spring equinox, the cumulative winter weather of an entire season sometimes waits until the last two weeks to completely bury us in snow as we get storms postmarked California and Texas. Being inundated with snow days, carrying shovels in our vehicles in case we need to excavate ourselves, and being forced to stay home, turn inward, slow down, rest.
