My season

Ah, the fall feast has been had, the temperature has dropped, the sparkly decorations and tiny lights have been retrieved from the dusty corners of the loft above the garage. This is my time of year. Perhaps because I was born in the middle of winter, just slipping in in the waning days of 1972, the season always calls to me. Whatever the origin of the feeling, it is undeniable that this time of year is special to me. It's introverted like me. The short days turn our focus inward. We live in the dark, wrapped in wool and microfleece, scarves buffeting the wind, hats pulled low over our ears. Our bodies are wrapped against the elements, our houses closed up tight to retain heat and conserve energy. We gather together seeking warmth and companionship around fires and hot coca.When the snow comes, the very earth and air become quiet. When the snow really comes, we are all slowed down--trips postponed, don't drive, stay inside...rest.

It is a somewhat sad irony that this contemplative, quiet, introverted, dark, cold, insular season is also one of our busiest--full of parties, travel, celebrations, shopping, and gift exchanges. Even with all this kinetic energy, however, the nature of the season is slow, restful, restorative. We try so hard with our electric lights, alarm clocks, and high-tech clothes to pretend that the earth around us doesn't dictate the cycle of our lives, but a layer of microfiber and a 25w CFL do not 20,000 years of evolution erase. If you pay any attention to what your body is telling you, you will probably notice that your body thinks it it time to rest and restore, no matter what the alarms, smartphones, electric lights and flashing screens of our lives may say.

I also find that as the calendar year comes to a close, I naturally become more reflective--looking back over the current year, assessing what I have done and not done and considering where I would like the next year to take me and what I will need to get there. Restore. Nourish. Recharge. Lay dormant under the snow. Feel your brain sink into the back of your skull. Rest in the expansive, dimly lit winter sky. Feel the chill sink down into your bones. Know that you are a living being. Breathe the earth down into your lungs. Lay in waiting for the return of the sun to warm your nourished mind and body. Be ready to reemerge and grow bright and bold, vivid and alive--skyward.

But don't forget the lessons of the trees and perennials--ultimately the lessons that run in the marrow of our bones, etched into our DNA. To reach the sky, the mighty oak sheds its leaves, turns all its systems to 'low' and rests...quietly renewing, recharging, restoring--laying in wait, under the snow.