Flushing View

Wintering: an invitation

The VIEW from here


 

 

“We have seasons when we flourish and seasons when the leaves fall from us, revealing our bare bones. Given time, they grow again.”

— Katherine May, Wintering: The power of rest and retreat in difficult times

I am sitting in my favorite chair, wearing my beloved sweatshirt and slippers, snuggled under my blanket. The laptop has just replaced my cat Louise, who has finally decided she’s had enough tummy rubs for the morning and has moved into the closet for a few hours of napping in the quiet dark.

Beside me is a mug of hot lemon water, my drink of choice after morning coffee. My friend Dawnie once told me that her Italian grandmother used to always say, “Lemon makes you beauuutiful,” and I have never once been able to slice into a lemon without thinking of that, smiling.

I look up and watch the way the light streams in, noting how it changed throughout the early hours. I almost never turn on lights, preferring instead to sit by morning candlelight, waiting. Sometimes the beauty of the shift brings tears to my eyes. The same thing happens to me at dusk when I become aware of what feels to me a magic hour, when the full colors of the day shift into two-toned sepia as all the world seems to prepare for sleep, even if it’s only early evening. The wonder of it catches my breath, again moving me to tears.

Once upon a time I made negative proclamations about this season. I am, after all, a summer lover: warmth, woods, beach, sun. But I’m deciding instead to seek, find, and embrace all the gifts that winter offers us. Rest. Contemplation. Rejuvenation. Comfort.

The Danish have a word for this: hygge (pronounced hoo-ga). It’s a concept I am somehow just now learning, but that suddenly seems to be everywhere, perhaps indicative of the fact that we are all on a journey to seek contentment in these chaotic days. Characterized by coziness, hygge is finding comfort in simple, soothing things. Blankets and pillows. Candles and fireplaces. Coffee, tea, and lemon water.

It requires a slowing down, an intentionality to notice and appreciate beautiful, ordinary things, like the way the boiling water pours from the teapot into the handcrafted mug, steam curling all around. It begs for a calmer playlist. (Bon Iver instead of Bon Jovi, for instance.) It coaxes us into the kitchen to simmer soup, knead bread, make coffeecake, and use our stoves in ways we’ll be reluctant to do six months from now. Simmer and sauté. Bake and broil. Roast. Braise. Stew.

This season of slower living is, in fact, a movement defined by “time for silence, time for planning, time for observing, time for reflection.” It encourages us to engage our senses in new ways that lead to appreciation, perhaps in ways that lead to life itself.

I no longer fight these winter days, wishing for the months ahead when life will seem easier. Instead, I realize we are here. Now. Isn’t it beautiful?

These days, when I leave my home and am met by a blast of wind and cold that tempt me to huddle deeper into my coat, I invite myself to do the opposite. I relax, open to it, feel its bite, and embrace it. I allow it to sink into me, knowing it will not take me down, not yet anyway. I listen.

Behind its howl, I hear the whisper, “Summer will come,” reminding me that wintering is necessary to realize that truth. I can appreciate what is, not just what I wish it otherwise to be. And in that way, winter gives way to hope.

Eileen Button teaches at Mott Community College and serves patrons at the Genesee District Library. She can be reached at button.eileen@gmail.com.