Wintering: The New Year So Far, Honoring the Season, and the Choices We Make

Bunnies with Ornament: Woodinville

Wintering, Or the New Year So Far

Well, it’s been a tough 2024 so far – Glenn got my evil virus on New Year’s Eve and has been sick since, and I have still not recovered from the original bug that hit me over a month ago. It seems so many Facebook friends are sick that I shouldn’t be complaining. At least it’s not covid I guess?

I have been deep in my wintering activities—watching a lot of movies I missed during the year, reading (right now, for the Bookwalter Wine Book Club, re-reading Isak Dinesan’s Winter’s Tales, full of odd spirituality and Denmark and melancholia) as well as Julie Cameron’s memoir. Glenn and I finally have the ornaments off the large Christmas tree, but the lights are still up all over Woodinville, including our strange bunny statues with pink ornament. It’s been cold and gray, with ice-rain, very dreary, even my birds aren’t showing up regularly. Every time I step outside, no matter how I’m dressed, I regret it.

Towhee in January

I haven’t been writing much—not enough mental energy—but I do think about the idea of “wintering,” or that we need to sort of make our way through winter gingerly, at least making some awareness of the need for warmth and hibernation. I’ve been sleeping at off hours—awake at 3 in the morning, asleep at 5 pm—which means I’m only watching weird stuff on television and reading in stray catches of awake time. “Winter just wasn’t my season,” as the song “Breathe (2 AM)” says.

I woke up today wondering how soon it would be spring, envying my friends and relatives taking vacations to sunny climates. How nice it would be for my cough and sinus stuff to have hot dry air for a change? Even though I’m allergic to the sun and MS hates heat. LOL.

My garden looks very bare right now, except for a few shoots in some containers, and we’re trying to keep a little lemon tree a neighbor gave us as a gift alive despite a lack of sunlight and freezing temperatures outside. We also bought a small Christmas tree we’re trying to keep alive on the back porch. Can’t ever plant enough trees, I say, even as I struggle to keep them alive. We try to keep our hummingbirds and towhees alive with feeders and birdbaths.

Is it hard for you to keep up your spirits and health in January? Maybe it shouldn’t be treated as a disorder, but a sign of our bodies’ alignment to the seasons. Wrap yourself in blankets, drink hot tea, read some somewhat mystifying short stories from a brilliant but strange writer of another age. Take a couple of sick days. I hate the late-night commercials for diet pills and exercise machines in a month that makes most of us long to eat more carbs and stay under the covers an extra 20 minutes. And maybe that’s actually the right medicine for this time of year. Why do we struggle against what even the plants and animals know how to do? I have a bright red vase of tulips above my desk right now, a sign of life in the otherwise foggy gray landscape. I think of all the writers that died in England of TB in the 1800’s, think about how the weather here in Seattle is so similar to London, all cold wind and rain but rarely snow or ice. It feels like ice and snow might be seen as celebratory next to the drab rain.

Along this vein of melancholy, I was thinking of two great writers we recently lost, Louise Gluck and Colleen McElroy, how both had disabilities they rarely talked about (Gluck had epilepsy, Colleen had RA), both were fiercely devoted to their work. Gluck was born into a lot of privilege; Colleen had to struggle more against a world less friendly to women, especially women of color, as a young person. I feel Colleen didn’t get enough recognition for her gifts as a teacher and writer and was the kind of person you instantly trusted—she radiated energy and warmth. Gluck wasn’t warm—even her obituaries seem prickly. I wonder about the value of our writing and our personhood after we pass away—how will we be remembered? Will time be kinder to one than the other? I wonder about the value of work versus the value of relationships, how often women are forced to choose in a way men are not. I am lucky I had a husband who was just as supportive when I was working ninety-hour weeks at Microsoft as when I now spend hours submitting poems to journals that don’t pay enough to cover the cost of submission. I never had to choose between a marriage and work, or a child and work (since I couldn’t have kids in the first place). As I get older, in the cold January months, I think harder about the choices I’ve made in my life. It will be later in life that I’ll be able to see if I made the right ones.

Well, on that note, my friends, honor the season. Stay in, light a fire, read a book off your shelf that has sat there for a few years. Sending you thoughts for restful wintering.