Darkness, darkness, be my pillow, take my head and let me sleep. Darkness, darkness, hide my yearning, for the things that cannot be.
Anyone who has heard of The Youngbloods will know of which I speak.
For this writer, darkness does not signify nighttime as much as it does the arrival of Winter. We in the Pacific Northwest know quite well the oppressive feelings which fall upon us in the Winter, not only caused by the earlier sunsets and late sunrises, but also because we only see full sun eighty days per year, and few of those eighty happen in the Winter.
In the spirit of full disclosure, I like Winter less now than I did ten years ago. The older I get, the harder it is, physically and emotionally, to navigate the short, damp, dismal days, my bones needing more warmth than long ago, my psyche needing the reappearance of sunshine.
However, this blog is about the wonders of life, so I really need to steer this missive in that direction.
The wonder is there; one just needs to be willing to search for it.
As odd as it may seem, I find beauty in the starkness. I took a photo the other day of a group of deciduous trees, perhaps one-hundred yards from me, with a gunmetal sky as the backdrop, and it really was a strangely lovely scene.
Mushrooms hang tough in late Fall, early Winter. I know it’s my imagination playing tricks, but there seems to be new mushrooms every single day, where once there were none, now you see them, that sort of thing, and the varying colors they display are quite stunning.
At the low end of the farm, where I spend so much of my time, the ground saturates quickly, in a matter of weeks, it seems, so that where once there was dry ground now there is a pond, and what is really amazing, to me, are the number of birds, many of them migratory, which find that makeshift pond. They fly by from several hundred feet vertically, look down through a thick canopy, and somehow spot the watery resting place.
My favorite time during the Winter is early morning, frosty air, plumes of breath soaring, the crunch of feet on sparkling ground, skin tingling from the cold, feeling more alive and capable of great things, timeless, aging suspended, easy to fall back onto Memory Lane, of the many such mornings spent as a younger man, as a child, running across open fields, or baseball fields, time suspended, no end in sight, for youth has no knowledge of finality.
My second favorite time, during Winter, is at night, the wind howling, rains pounding, or the northern cold encircling my tiny home, like some mythical beast waiting to pounce, and the feeling of safety within, a cocoon embracing me as I look out the window, or lay in bed, the warmth and comfort settling over me, a lover’s embrace, my mind floating free of any stress or worry which might have accumulated during the day. The wolves may howl, the banshees may scream, the man with the scythe may search for a weakness in my defenses, but for that moment, in that place, I am safe.
I would enjoy walks in the Winter much more if it were not for my aging body. I do not find rapture in the chill as I once did. I would much rather read about long walks in Winter than take them, but take them I do, for my health and for Maggie’s, my girl seemingly immune to the effects of the cold, always eager for a stroll through thirty-degree temps and horizontal rains.
My best writing is done during the Winter months; for me, Winter is a time of reflection, and my writings, if nothing else, are reflective in nature. I have always suspected that I am touched by depression, not overwhelming, not incapacitating, but at the very least a melancholy, so the Winter sings my song much more than the other three seasons, and that song is the background music which feeds my writing endeavors.
Please note, Winter, as is the case with the other three seasons, is capitalized, me thumbing my nose at proper grammar, giving each season the dignity of a capital letter, so deserving they are, Mother Nature having paid her dues, paying them now in double-time, and the very least I can do is show some respect. I figure if I am expected to address a doctor as Doctor, or a person of higher learning, Professor, I sure as hell can call a season by its proper name.
Maggie wags her tail, my signal that she wants a walk, and what my girl wants, my girl gets. Since she lost ten pounds, she has been much more active, much happier, and I want that to continue for her. And so, I put on my waterproof shoes, slip into my fleece jacket, over that drag on the winter coat, the last piece of my ensemble, a hat, and open the door to greet my nemesis.
I wish you all a lovely Winter filled with wonder.
Bill
