Embracing the Final Weeks of Winter
Toward the end of winter I admit that I will grasp for any sign that spring is almost here. So it is with anticipation that I look forward to Groundhog Day and find myself willing to believe the groundhog’s forecast if it is that “spring is around the corner.”
This year, on Groundhog Day, it was snowing where I live, so it was predictably disappointing that the national groundhog, headquartered as he is in Pennsylvania, predicted six more weeks of winter. I shrugged and accepted reality, having no other choice. Then I went a step further. I decided to throw myself into the snow and allow myself to be swallowed up by the final weeks of the season. Accepting the last weeks of winter was made easy by the quality and quantity of the snowfall in central Connecticut during the month of February.
At mid-month, the weather fell into an every other day pattern of two to eight inches of snow at a time. The snow was light and fluffy, not heavy and wet, and at one point it snowed, ever so lightly but continuously, for almost forty-eight hours straight. This last storm was especially delightful, because the snow came down so slowly and accumulated so little, that it was possible to just enjoy the feeling of occupying a gently shaken snow globe without having to shovel.
There are people who find no value in winter in the snow belt, but even those people can appreciate the beauty of fresh fallen snow. It uniformly blankets everything and focuses our eye on the shapes of things rather than on their functionality. A house becomes a gingerbread house. A farmer’s field becomes a foamy sea. A tree covered country road becomes a tunneled entrance to another dimension.
That’s what I enjoyed about the last weeks of winter where I live. The snow fell at a rate and consistency that kept everything draped in a soft white blanket for most of February. The groundhog was right, and this time it was easy to see the beauty that came with his forecast.
I have made it a point, in the last week’s of this winter, to go outside, to wander and look. I have a favorite hike in the woods, near a stream that connects, just around a bend in the road, with the Connecticut River. The combination of the snow covered branches of tall oak, maple and elm trees, and the snow covering the forest floor, keeps the wind out and provides a layer of insulation in this shadowed place. Yes, it is winter and the air is cold, but inside this forest, within earshot of civilization, it feels a few degrees warmer.
It is quiet, except for the crunching of snow and ice under my feet. The rushing water of the stream cuts a shelf into the icy river bank. A hint of blue emerges in the snow where the sun reaches down through the trees and the undergrowth. The blue is offset by the yellow rock of the river bed. Dormant leaves, hanging from the branches of saplings, offer bursts of gold against an otherwise white, gray and black background. The branches of the older trees are bare and their trunks stand solid and straight like vertical lines traced uniformly on the canvas of an abstract charcoal drawing.
This has been a spectacular New England winter. Not too cold. There have been no days of deep freeze. It has been just cold enough. Many people battle depression during the winter. For some, the lack of sunshine effects both the body and the mind. I am fortunate not to have that challenge, but I can certainly understand it. Spring is more hopeful. Summer always seems endless. Though fall is a pre-cursor to the darkness of winter, its mild temperatures and raging color makes the experience worth the sacrifice of an extra layer of clothing.
Perhaps more than any other season, winter is often used as a metaphor for the cycles of life. Unfortunately for winter, the metaphor requires the coldest and darkest months of the year to stand in as a symbol for decline and even death. But if winter were to talk it would tell us it doesn’t see it that way.
Winter is a time of recovery and rebuilding. It is a time to re-energize and build up the stores we need to get through the more active months of the year. It is a time to strengthen for what is next. Winter is temporary, but necessary. Winter is preparation.
On a winter walk through the woods, note how nature uses the season. There is no defeat. There is no decline. There is only mindful retreat. The stream still rushes to the sea. The trees still reach for the sun, pulling it closer with each passing month. Birds and other animals continue their daily chores, looking for food and shelter.
On a recent hike I came across a woman walking two dogs. One, an old Labrador Retriever, who sees the snow for what it is; frozen water in which to swim. The other dog was only a few months old. He was the size and had the coat of an Irish Terrier, but his owner said he was a Labrador mix. “Sometimes they look that way when they are young,” she said.
The old Lab waddled by with no time to chat, because he knew his time in the snow is limited by the season itself and his own age. There were snow drifts to jump in and things to smell underneath. But the puppy came up to me to say hello and he looked me in the eye and, as only a young dog expresses such thoughts, he said “Can you believe our good fortune? This is winter.” I walked away from that brief conversation understanding, with more clarity than before, that I needed to take the approach of the old Lab for the rest of this winter and every winter to come.