NOTE: Beginning this week, I will only post on Tuesdays till after the New Year.
This morning a neighbor walked by when I was sweeping off the light dusting of snow on our sidewalks, and we had a brief conversation.
"I've decided to be optimistic and hope the snow will melt today," he laughed.
"Let me know how that works for you," I responded.
"Do you and Bruce get away during the winter?"
"Not usually. We like winter. It doesn't generally bother us. How about you?"
Really? Well, I've got plans to be gone in January and March and maybe December, too," he chuckled and dashed down the block towards his house, tugging on the leash of his dog.
Thus, begins the ongoing discussion about winter distress here in Minnesota. True, winter has arrived a bit earlier and a bit more definitely than normal this year. The temperature here is 6 this morning, but the sun is shining brightly and no more snow is predicted till later in the week.
I realize I have a life of privilege. I live in a cozy house with a good furnace. I have a supply of sweaters and shawls and wool socks and long underwear, when I need it. Plus, as a woman in her 70's, I can stay home when I want to and don't need to battle the ice and snow on the roads.
Perhaps it is my Danish heritage, but I not only don't dread winter, I welcome it. Last year I learned about the Danish concept of hygge (hue ga), which is hard to define, but has to do with finding joy in the simple pleasures of everyday life.
Hygge illuminates the long, dark Scandinavian
winters with candlelight and crackling hearths
and good times shared with friends and family.
Hygge is about instilling a feeling of contentment
and happiness...Decorate your home with items that
bring you joy, such as fresh flowers and pine cones
collected on country walks.
Hygge is about sharing good times with the people
you love, and one of the best ways of doing this is to
sit down together for a meal or tea and cake, and discuss
the big (and little) things in life.
Hygge isn't just about shutting out the cold and
snuggling by the fire.
Hygge is about seeing beauty in the everyday and
savoring each moment either in the form of well-
deserved "me time" or spending time with loved ones.
from The Art of Hygge, How to Bring
Danish Cosiness into Your Life
Jonny Jackson and Elias Larson
The winter months feel spacious to me. I look at the bare trees and see open space; space in which I can spend more hours at my desk writing or in the snug under a blanket reading. I sleep longer, too, and we are learning how important good sleep is for our well-being. I love the hearty food of winter, the layers of comfy clothes, the song of the wind outside the door, and even the early arrival of darkness each day.
That's how I feel, but I know that is not the case for everyone. However, I invite you to prepare for this coming season. What can you do to improve these winter days for yourself?
Gather some favorite recipes for soups. Become a baker--breads and scones and muffins. Buy a new boardgame or get out
ones you haven't played in years. Stack favorite books you have thought about re-reading. Set a pretty table--be sure to include candles--even when you are eating by yourself. Get out a craft project you set aside--a sweater you haven't finished knitting.
Remember those boxes of photographs you keep telling yourself you want to organize. Now is the time. Rearrange your furniture. Move a favorite chair to the spot in the house that gets the best light--no matter what room it is. Cut paper snowflakes--they will remind you of the magic and wonder of childhood.
Write letters. Not emails. Letters. Luxuriate in soothing body lotions. Watch feel-good movies. Get outside, even if it means only standing on your front steps and breathing. When it isn't icy, bundle up and go for a walk. Notice the beauties of the day.
Check on a neighbor who may need help shoveling or getting to the grocery store or who may find winter to be even more distressing than you do. I bet she would love some of the muffins you made. And what can you do for others who don't have the privileged life you do? Are you really using all the coats and scarves taking up space in your closet? Contact a local agency who would love to have them.
Rather than wait till you are snowed in or feeling the heaviness of one dark day after another, prepare now. Get ready. Make a list of appealing activities and gather what you may need.
Our weariness with winter doesn't make the season go any faster, so why not decide to live into these months? Why not honor these days of your life?
Fear less, hope more;
eat less, chew more;
whine less, breathe more;
talk less, say more;
hate less, love more; and
all good things are yours.
Scandinavian proverb
An Invitation
What are your winter intentions? I would love to know.
Finally, snow.
Sunday night it snowed. Now, along with the bare branches, the birds at the feeders, and the dirty cars parked along the street, a glimpse outside says clearly, "Winter."
With snow comes a certain silence. Unlike rain and wind, snow is silent, and its appearance can be a morning surprise. This forecast was clear, however. Snow and blistering cold temperatures for most of the week. Get thee to the grocery store! I wasn't the only one anticipating indoor days. The aisles were packed with loaded carts, many shelves were bare, especially in the snack food and soup aisles, and the check-out lines were long. As we waited our turns, we hardy Minnesotans talked, laughed at our willingness to put up with these extreme winters. One woman said, "I just moved back from Florida. Silly me." I chuckled when I noticed a young couple, college age, I thought, with stunned expressions on their faces when they saw the store packed with shoppers. Did they not listen to the weather forecast or were they used to someone else maintaining full cupboards for any occasion?
Later, driving home from the senior living facility where my father lives and where we had brought dinner to share with him, the snow delicately floated in front of us. One of those romantic snowfalls-- as long as you had a warm home awaiting you.
An early bedtime called. Quilts. Flannel pajamas and sheets. A good book. A gentle snow. The best kind of winter night.
A few hours later I woke up, as my old body requires, and I walked to the windows to see if the snow had continued. Yes, and along with the snow a layer of silence had descended onto my urban world. I sat in the snug for a few minutes, wrapping myself in that silence. Not an empty silence. Not a silence begging for sound, but rather the silence of rest, of sleep, of surrender. The house and our street seemed tucked into a tender hideaway. No one moved. No sound broke the hush.
In a few hours more, the silence would be broken by snowplows thundering through the streets, snowblowers bleating, and snow shovels scraping. But for a brief time how good it was to sit in the silence, just till my toes curled from the cold. In this pause I gave thanks for the warmth I experience in my life, and I knew in the gift of this silence God would surely hear my heart beating in gratitude.
Amen.
An Invitation
How has silence entered your life lately? I would love to know.
Now that winter has finally come to Minnesota, Nanook of the North has made an appearance.
The other morning I walked to our grandson's school for my weekly volunteer job of shelving books in the library. Even though we live only three blocks away from the school, I encased myself in winter gear, nearly prepared enough for an adventure across the frozen tundra with sled dogs.
Wool socks? Check
Long underwear under corduroy pants? Check
Turtleneck and bulky sweater? Check
Itchy scarf around my neck? Check
Heavy below zero parka worn only a couple times a year? Check
Earmuffs? Check
Woolen Scandinavian hand knitted mittens? Check
Snow boots? Check
Kleenex in the pocket for steamed up glasses? Check
Hood up? Zipper zipped? Check
I don't mind winter. I prefer winter clothes, and I love winter comfort food--meatloaf and acorn squash and pasta, lots of pasta. I have quilts and slippers and shawls, but our new windows do an excellent job of diminishing the extreme cold. I love the beauty of the snow, the silence of the snow, and the safety I feel when I am inside looking out at the snow. But when I do have to be out and about our car warms up quickly, and I rejoice in the luxury of seat warmers.
No, I don't mind winter, but I know you might not like it, and so I am willing to commiserate with you and wonder why we choose to live in this land of ice and snow. I am willing to wail with you about how long winter drags on and even though we have had many unseasonably warm days and little snow, you are sick of it already. I know, I know, I say. Isn't it awful?
I am not being honest with you, however, for I welcome this cave time, a time of both intense growth and deepening, but paradoxically, a time of rest.
Let the dawns
come late,
let the sunsets
arrive early.
let the evenings
extend themselves
while I lean into
the abyss of my being…
Let me seek solace
in the empty places
of winter's passages
those vast dark nights
that never fail to shelter me.
from "Winter's Cloak"
Joyce Rupp
An Invitation
Are you a winter whiner or a winter welcomer? I would love to know.
Minnesotans are known for saying, "Enjoy these days while you can because winter is just around the corner." You hear that statement or similar ones not only in the fall months, but on a gorgeous summer day, someone is bound to bring up winter. "Just you wait," someone will warn. Then in the middle of winter, if we get a warmer than usual day or two, someone will always point out how we will be punished for the blip in the temperatures. I don't know if that is a Midwestern thing or a Scandinavian thing, since so many of us have that background, but we always seem to have one eye on the creeping, approach of winter. October may be the month of ghosts and goblins, but watch out--for winter comes disguised as fall. So get out there and enjoy it--that's an order!!!
That's just what I have been doing. This weekend we spent an afternoon at the Minnesota Landscape Arboretum, along with everyone else it seemed, but the hordes of people did not detract from the glory of the day. The display of pumpkins and gourds satisfied the love affair I have with those fall fruits, although the scarecrows scattered in the gardens did not do their job--being more of a welcoming presence than a deterrent to garden thieves. The annual flower beds had been cleared, but we barely noticed the bareness as we were showered by a pirate's treasure chest of gold coins--leaf after leaf floating around us, fluttering in the breeze. The herb garden after the first frost had lost much of its vitality, but you could see what it had been, remnants of its youth. Even at the end of their useful days, there was beauty in the fading colors and withered shapes. I find hope in that.
Sunday afternoon I wrapped myself in a shawl and headed to our side garden for some reading time in the sun. Just like all the doomsayers in our midst, I told myself I better do this one more time before winter forbids such luxury. As I shook the leaves off the cushion, I realized I had not enjoyed this outdoor space enough. How many excuses there were--it's too hot or too buggy or I think I will take a walk instead, or I will have more time for that tomorrow. Fall can become a season of regrets. I think about what I could have done, should have done and wonder how I am possibly going to do everything I want to do in the time remaining. I sit with that question often these days, the fall of my life.
Yesterday I drove to a town in Wisconsin about 90 minutes away from here to meet two long time friends. Only a week ago I had driven that same route, a familiar, often-traveled highway, but how different it seemed yesterday--so much change in one week. Where were those reds last week? The day was grey and overcast, and I occasionally needed to turn on the windshield wipers, but I was grateful for the misty moistness which allowed me to adjust to the intensity of the color.
I eased into the red. Many years ago I had a stunning red hat and when I wore it, I would always get compliments from total strangers. I was noticed in a way I was not used to and not completely comfortable with. I decided to prepare myself for the attention by wearing the hat at home for awhile before leaving the house. The wispy veil over the reds yesterday seemed to be a practice session, too--just wait till you see us in all our splendor.
The eagle I saw standing guard in an almost empty tree punctuated the day. Now is the time. Don't miss this. Don't wait. If not now, when?
The squirrel who chattered at me while I sat in the garden the other day knows the importance of the present. He had nuts to gather. "Time is a wasting," he seemed to say, scolding me for being in his way. He proved his point, I discovered the next morning when I opened the front door and saw the damage he had done--I know it was him--on one of our pumpkins. Oh well.
Today is that day, I announce to the eagle and the squirrel and the leaves coating the front yard. Sun is promised, and we are going on a fall color tour with friends along the St Croix River. Such a senior citizen thing to do!!! Aren't we lucky, and besides, winter is just around the corner!
An Invitation
How are you living in these fall days? What are you uncovering as the leaves fall? What does fall moving into winter mean to you? I would love to know.
Once upon a time at a retreat I helped facilitate for women with breast cancer the opening ice breaker activity was to declare one's favorite season. All the participants were arranged in a large circle, and the center of that circle was divided into four quadrants, one for each of the seasons. One by one the women stated their seasonal preference and stood in the appropriate space. Quickly, spring and summer filled to overflowing. Autumn had a fair number of enthusiasts, but winter? Not so much.
Along with a few, very few, other brave souls, I stood in the winter quadrant. I was not surprised there were so few of us standing like evergreen trees in our chosen square, for over the years I had heard all the reasons why winter should not be my favorite season. Isn't it interesting, I thought, that no one ever objects to someone who expresses emphatically that summer or spring is their favorite season. If fall is the favored season, sometimes there is an addendum about the problem with loving fall is that winter follows. Or then there is the cop-out about loving all the seasons, and, of course, there is much to appreciate in each season.
I have learned over the years to just nod passively when people express their distress over the long winter and not defend it or explain how I welcome the hibernation time, how my inner bear needs the cave. Sometimes when winter has been particularly extreme, intense and long, as it has been this year for many parts of the country, including here in Minnesota, I express my own yearning for spring, but I do so to be politically correct, to get along, to be one of the gang. Inside I know where my soul lives, and it is in winter.
I fell and broke my ankle on March 24, days after the spring equinox, and even if spring had arrived on schedule, meeting the desires of all those in the spring square, my personal spring would have been delayed as I was housebound for several weeks. I now am able to move more freely inside and outside and even have permission to drive. Spring is taking on more meaning for me this year.
I want to be clear that I have nothing against spring, not really, even when it comes too quickly or too early, according to my inner calendar. I, too, love opening my front door and sitting in the warming sunshine on our front stoop. I rejoice with the kids on their bikes, bare, pale legs pumping the pedals. I look forward to meeting neighbors whom I have only previously seen from our windows as they have dashed from car to house, not lingering in the cold. I love asparagus and strawberries and look forward to the first trip of the year to the farmers' market. And, of course, the buds of new life appearing magically everywhere, including the rhododendron at the side of our steps and the magnolia tree down the block and the startling yellows of forsythias peeking between yards are glorious examples of ongoing creation. I rejoice with those who identify their passion as gardening, for they have had to wait a long time to live their dreams. I, too, especially this year, appreciate the greater ease of moving around, knowing there is no more ice to change one's life.
Spring is a busy time. Just look around you. Everything is bursting, bubbling, pushing, surging, moving, chirping, quickening, awakening, growing. If you blink, you might miss the sudden appearance of green or yellow or pink. I have had a time of undoing, of moving slowly and deliberately, if at all. I have rested. I have been in recess and now it is time to discover if I have restored.
I suspect my spring will be a time to discover in what ways I have recuperated and in what ways the restrictions and retirement of these last weeks will result in revitalization and refreshment. I think even this winter-loving being is ready for spring.
Words of Wisdom
But the seasons, though regular, are unpredictable,
messy--they blur into one another, offering sunny skies
in January and frosts in May. We cannot hold them down
or contain them any more than we can contain our own
awareness of this bright, burgeoning world. Too soon
we snap back into self-consciousness, warily assessing
what we know and how we know it.
But spring's vitality, its headlong rush into new life,
its very innocence pulls us toward moments of pure
awareness, moments in which we see the glorious
particulars of this world--snakeskins and puppies and
adolescent boys and sunsets and cedar trees--all
illuminated by the light of eternity. Moments in which
as Dillard notes in Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, it is 'less
like seeing than like being for the first time seen,
knocked breathless by a powerful glance.'
In spring, the sharp edges of the world scrape against
our heavy eyelids and our dulled hearts. Spring's beauty
pulls us up and out of ourselves toward praise and
wonder. Catch if if you can. (pp.126-127)
Spring
A Spiritual Biography of the Season
Gary Schmidt and Susan M. Felch, editors
An Invitation
Of course, the obvious question is what is your favorite season and why, but I invite you to go deeper. In what season does your soul reside? Now that spring truly seems to have arrived, what were the lessons of this past winter season? What is this new spring season asking of you. I would love to know.
Winter vacations, especially when you are from a cold climate, always seem to inspire the daily comment, "Well it's just another day in paradise" referring to the sunshine and warm breezes and a view perhaps of palm trees and ocean or cactus and desert. I think the statement also refers to the luxury of a time out from routine and work and yes, winter, too.
I've always been a winter person and do not usually feel a need for a break from winter. In fact, winter in Madison this year has been easy and we have not panted for release from the elements. No snowed-in days. No gazing out the window as the snow has piled. No listening for the snow plow or Jack, the high school kid next door who shovels our walkway. No days of keeping the fire going, the hot chocolate simmering, and the book pages turning. No days of waiting for Bruce to safely pull in the garage after a treacherous drive home. No mornings being amazed at what has happened overnight; how the world transformed. The stillness. The insulation or some might say, the isolation. No mornings of digging out or wondering how much more of the white stuff we'll get before it ends. Never mind, the refrigerator is stocked and we are warm and safe. We have not had any of those days yet, and now we march steadily towards spring.
What have been some of your perfect moments and perfect days and experiences of "another day in paradise"? I invite you to share.
