Winter

There comes a time, late in winter, that many people anticipate. It’s when the long, dark, snowy months give way at last to the warm promise of spring. That’s when we hear the birds, busy declaring territories, see the animals that had disappeared during the dark months, smell that warm brown promising odor of thawing earth coming to life. Spring.

It’s still winter, and for some, that means STILL winter. STILL a time of snow, snow shovels, road salt, slush, cold, and all the rest. Driving on ice, or, quite possibly, caroming off each other on the freeway. Slips and falls, more treacherous the older we get. (Yes, the ground DOES seem to move farther and farther from the brain as we age - possibly a metaphor anticipating that moment when, like or not, we drift upward into eternity.)

I speak, of course, of northern winter. I have no experience of winter in the southern sunshine. As a northerner, such an experience - even if taken via a plane flight to a tropical island - seems to me unusual, leaving me with a sense of discomfort, as though I’d wandered into the wrong classroom and taken a seat, only to be bewildered by the topic on the blackboard.

So as a northerner, winter is a part of me. As is the anticipation of spring, with warmer days, sprouts, birds and all the rest.

But stay a moment.

For now, the earth is still asleep, though awakening.

A walk through a forest in the winter is a special journey, from the crunch of snow under boot to the fresh clean bite of cold air on the cheek. Whipping across the open space of a lake, winter’s wind reminds you of nature’s power, its indifference to your need for warmth. Summer’s wind is different, often more sudden and violent, the product of storms, electricity and cyclonic power. Winter’s wind sweeps, and sweeps, carrying on its crest primordial ice.

On roads and streets, there may be brown slush and gray salt, but in the woods, winter’s color is white. Trees shoot upward, their black boles stark against the brightness. Evergreens trap snow, while red winter berries capped with it gleam brightly in brilliant sun. If the light is just right — the sun trapped behind thin white clouds, the pale blue of winter sky behind — the snow will appear blue, somehow colder than white, as though a sliver of Antarctica has broken free and traveled thousands of miles to land here.

There are two paths you’ll find in the winter woods, and only in these woods. One is the path — so familiar and well-trod in other seasons, where many feet have worn the grass away — now transformed, pure, trackless, a white promise unfolding before you. The second is similar. It’s the path you’ll have overlooked when undergrowth conspired to hide it. But now, with only the bare stalks of sumac, honeysuckle and chokecherry leaning in, you can see it tracing its way through the forest. Both paths look the same to the untrained eye. But if you’ve been walking these woods, you’ll know the difference. You’ll be thrilled by each one: the first, because it’s been renewed before your eyes; and the second, because it’s a newly discovered way forward.

All this would be enough. But winter’s true power is silence. Stop in your tracks in the winter woods and hold your breath. There may be a nuthatch or a chickadee commenting on the day. But often you will hear nothing. Your own breath will intrude, once you let it out. That stillness — STILL winter — is what you need.

This is what winter does. It sifts the stresses of life and quiets them, hiding them under shrouds of snow. The world may tilt and wail, and war, politics, and pandemics elbow to the fore. But in the woods, nothing. Silence is pure, as it must be. While our hearts may bleed for those suffering in distant lands, still we will somehow do both them and us a small bit of justice if, for a moment, we stop, remember nature, remind ourselves of the planet we all share, and in so doing, gather into ourselves (or discover it, really, as being there all along) that strength we need. Strength to help. To fight to overcome that which is wrong. Strength to pray, and to love, and to work towards healing.

And having brought into our core the strength and purity of winter, let’s use it to move into a better spring. The way before us, as nature has taught us, will be hard. As surely as the robin building her nest in the wrong place will lose her children to the opportunistic predator, so will children be lost in the tragic days ahead. Winter teaches us to hunch ourselves to the wind, when it blows too hard, and to shoulder on. Spring teaches us hope, promise, danger, opportunity, tragedy, and the continuance of life.

As we move from winter to what seems to be a dark spring, remember that life will emerge as it always does when the weather turns, and that we have the opportunity to forge a better future. Hard choices face us. But we’re stronger and more clear-eyed in crisis and can best find firm footing when we anchor ourselves in the hard bones of winter, the softer promise of spring, and the bonds we share.