Hello and welcome to the first Saturday of March here at the Wannaskan Almanac. Today is March 6th.
A month-ish ago, the Kindergartner came roaring home from school, excited to share his Groundhog's Day papers and party hat. "The groundhog saw his shadow! Only six more weeks of winter!"
I gave him a sweet, demure smile, thinking to myself, "Oh, buddy. Clearly, your little mind hasn't wrapped itself around the true shelflife of a typical northern Minnesota winter."
But, boy, after this week of temperatures well above twenty degrees, jumping into the thirties and even flirting with the low forties, I'm glad I held my tongue, for it seems that, indeed, spring really just may be only two short weeks away.
And I felt a little sad.
I know; my summer-loving peeps just gasped and said, "Preposterous! The thought!" Ach! But hear me out.
I've been reflecting on how much I love peace and quiet. How much I enjoy being busy just within the square footage of my own reality. I like engaging with the world through Zoom, email, phone calls, text and instant messaging apps, podcasts, books, newspapers, and radio, while not being fully in it. I gladly entrusted the weekly shopping to my husband. I feel little need to be among people.
One early morning this past week, I looked out the living room window and meditated on the bare spots of concrete showing through the packed ice and snow in the driveway and the dark, gravelly splotches in the section of dirt road in front of our house. Recalling the slushy, crunchy walk around the neighborhood the day before, my chest spasmed as my body protested to the week's rapid snowmelt.
Spring means the emergence of life. A re-emergence of life. Bodies moving; life growing. People coming out to join one another. And in that moment - and maybe it was just a moment - I was actually wishing spring would stay at bay just a little longer. Instead, would Mother Nature please hear my call?
Can we keep the quiet and calm just a little bit longer?
Because that's how it's been at our house recently: quiet and calm. We've had a (more or less) peaceful synergy while we all do our respective part to keep our little household humming. In the morning, I cook breakfast while my husband makes sandwiches and the older kids prepare the fruits and vegetables for school lunches. In the evenings, the littles help unload the dishwasher and set the table for dinner. Table conversation is thoughtful and inclusive. Prayer time has had fewer interruptions.
Even the Kindergartener noticed the calm permeating our residence. On Friday morning, he asked, "Why is our house so quiet this morning?"
I explained that kids had a free day from school and everyone else was still in their beds. To which he added, "And because you and tatÃnek aren't 'discussing.'" ("Discussing" our term for "conversation" in raised voices.)
I think of winter as a time of witness to a world that sleeps; of a larger world tucked into its smaller compartments. I enjoyed an author's Facebook post this week in which she shared that a bright spot this winter has been the discovery of the TV series Bridgerton and how the show inspired her to purchase a sparkly, era hair comb and necklace and to don her wedding dress and produce Bridgerton-inspired drawings and photos of herself in a hazy summer meadow with a (photoshopped) horse.
My God, I've become an introvert, is the usual assailant that creeps into my brain mush and gives my introspection a resounding whack.
However, one of my cousins, with whom I've discussed the introvert-extrovert tension at length (for she is decidedly an introvert) assures me that I have not become an introvert. Even when I texted her this cartoon a couple weeks ago and wrote, "My God, I've become an introvert."
Most writers identify as solitary types, preferring time alone over time spent with people. Up until the pandemic, I had never been one to identify as a solitary type. This sometimes left me feeling untethered, left out a bit, from the world of writers who share this camaraderie (in spirit; not in person).
Maybe it's because, before, I was too much in the thick of it - the swirl of people and busy of kids' activities and afternoon programs, not to mention my own pursuits - to find the eye in the storm; the calm where artists (not just writers) settle, observing the storm and taking their notes. But now, it's like I've crossed a river of conscience - from this side to that - climbing the sandy banks of a shore previously invisible like discovering the gate in The Secret Garden.
I see new things. My eyes are new. My feelings are different. Like an awakening, but in winter.
My husband often uses an expression that is either Czech or something his father says (or both): "You can't expect flowers to bloom in January." He's usually referring to our kids and I usually agree.
But, this week as the weather warmed, I paused and pondered. What if I am the flower blooming in January? What if it is possible?
If it is - and I do have a tendency to embrace the fantastical - I sure wouldn't mind just a couple more weeks of winter.
On This Day
Remembering You
Kim
I can't believe there's someone else out there who is sad at winter's waning. Me, too! As you say, the silence and inner space of the season is a blessing. I was surprised, however, at your revelation that "I feel little need to be among people." Who wrote this post for Kim? She would never say such a thing. The girl with magnificent "woo." But I read on, and began to appreciate Kim's current ~sadness. Winter has a quiet glory about it: the gift of serenity, should we appreciate and accept it. Winter comes wrapped in plaid blankets and sheepskin booties. Her movements and sounds are muffled, minimized. Winter unhurried, builds a marshmallow wall and for about half the year keeps us protected from the madness of the other 6 months . Yes, winter is my favorite season. I must admit that I feel somewhat useless in winter because my love of the season is made possible because my beloved husband takes care of snow removal, harvesting fallen jack pines to keep us warm, keeping the fire in the woodstove burning just so, and a dozen other tasks that make my winters easy and delightful. Do I take him for granted? No, I send him my gratitude every time I see him involved in one of these tasks.
ReplyDeleteReturning to you, Kim, I resonate with the following " . . . the calm where artists (not just writers) settle, observing the storm and taking their notes. " That's me!" my writer's heart shouts.
Thank you for capturing what your writer friend feels in winter, and in contrast,
the melancholy of summer when I recoil from the madness of four-wheelers, campfire parties, and muddy soil. Summer is dirty and unruly. Winter is elegant and has only one rule: cherish the equanimity.
Three weeks of February we had cloudy, dismal days that put a lot of people in a tailspin resembling depression. Following that, despite temps plummeting to minus 30 and 40, we had sunshine every day. Me and the missus didn't go outside if we didn't have to. BANG! Temps shot up to 30 above zero and everybody came out of their little hovels along Mikinaak Creek, shot their guns in the air, threw back a shot of Sailor Jerry's Spiced Rum in unison, linked arms and danced around and around until we all were dizzy. YAY! Spring warm-up!
ReplyDeleteHowever, naysayers in a Roseau farm supply store were heard to say, "Argh, we're goin' ta pay fer all dis here warm weather, mark my words. We ain't seen da last of winter."
Obviously the person was someone who has lived up here for awhile and was not taken in by all this no-jacket/windows down while driving in town-weather foisted upon us appreciative-but-cautious types by the National Weather Service. Although it is pleasant weather by and large, and there are no ticks or mosquitoes in the woods yet, and just about all the snow has melted in our vast yard where wild turkeys have now returned for the second year in a row; and we fully expect the return of geese and swans on the creek at any moment, it dawned on us, just this morning, that the delivery trucks are going to start cutting ruts just off the driveway when they go to turn around.
What is still solid now -- if it doesn't get cold again pretty quick -- is going to turn to mud wherever we drive. So the idea of that not happening made us put all our winter clothes away; take the snow tires off the vehicles, take down the storm windows, uncover the central air compressor, drive out the lawnmower and put the snowblower behind -- because sure as heck, she'll snow tomorrow and temperatures drop out of sight for another month or two. You gotta love winter in this country; it's the best..
ReplyDeleteThe quote from Georgia O’Keefe is perfect for your post. Extroverts live in the City. Introverts live in the country where flowers bloom, though not in January.