Earlier this month, I posted a picture in the story box on Instagram. I took it as I was running in a familiar place around sunset. The afternoon light illuminated the top third of the trees, nature's way of waving goodbye to another day. I'm mesmerized by the majesty of trees when the leaves are down. The way the established oaks show their story in bare branches, the contrast of the ones laying exposed for a season sitting next to those who keep their green. Both carry a different set of reminders. As my five-year-old puts it, when the leaves are down, "you can see all the way to Oregon!" We live in Tennessee.
It was the tenth of January when I took this picture, writing this tiny caption in the upper right-hand corner.
Bit by bit, the days are getting longer.
I was shocked at how many messages I received. Then it hit me. We are so very desperate for light, feeling this acutely in the thick of winter. If you live in the cold-weather states, you know what I'm talking about. The air takes up a more profound residence. It settles in and makes itself known as you cross the threshold of the doors of your home. Just as the Almanac had promised, this year has been particularly cold.
I have a history of anticipating that the winter will bring with it a sort of seasonal downness. Growing up in southern Oregon, we had proper winters, cold and often full of snow. The six years we spent in southern California were disorienting; the almost always "mostly sunny and 70" forecast sounds ideal to many but left me craving distinguishable seasons. Tennessee gives us just that. The is spring bursts on the scene with its vibrant pinks and whites set against a brilliant blue sky, giving way to a summer marked by varying hues of green and skies that I have grown to love full of fluffy cumulus clouds that expand right before your eyes. Just as the humid summer days have worn their welcome, in comes the fall as the leaves transition to deep reds, amber, oranges saturated yellows. That first day you can put on a sweater ignites the excitement of the coming holidays. We are deep in the heart of winter now, where many days are dark and grey, though this year has brought us more blankets of white than I can ever remember since living in the south. I saw a meme yesterday that many are sure it is the 58th of January. The winters, they can drag on, but there is a stark beauty in this barren season.
Parker Palmer writes about seasons in his book, "Let Your Life Speak." In talking about the winter season, he says this.
In the Upper Midwest, newcomers often receive a classic piece of wintertime advice: "The winters will drive you crazy until you learn to get out into them." Here people spend good money on warm clothing so that they can get outdoors and avoid the "cabin fever" that comes from huddling fearfully by the fire during hard-frozen months. If you live here long, you learn that a daily walk into the winter world will fortify the spirit by taking you boldly to the very heart of the season you fear.
Our inward winters take many forms — failure, betrayal, depression, death. But every one of them, in my experience, yields to the same advice: "The winters will drive you crazy until you learn to get out into them." Until we enter boldly into the fears we most want to avoid, those fears will dominate our lives. But when we walk directly into them—protected from frostbite by the warm garb of friendship or inner discipline or spiritual guidance—we an learn what they have to teach us. Then we discover once again that they cycle of the seasons is trustworthy and life-giving, even in the most dismaying season of all.
I love when authors pen a kindred perspective. A few years ago, I introduced a habit of walking at night, even as the days got shorter. There is a tenderness, a sacred silence to the empty streets. These are the times when I take note of the moon's phases and the sounds of the ones that stir as the sun goes down. I look forward to the lights and the lawn ornaments that go up as we anticipate the birth of Christ. And if it snows, I set out for one of the most magical walks of all. A fresh blanket from heaven coating the ground is enough to awaken the child within.
It's not always a fail-safe, but the times that I have been more dedicated to "getting out into the winter," both physically and metaphorically, have proven to be some of the most fertile grounds. And the ones where the season takes its toll, somehow the mercy of God prevails in the way its meaning eventually unfolds. It takes a while to see the harvest of what can barely seem to us like a mustard seed. He created the winter for a reason, and to deny it is to miss the fullness of the human experience.
We are working our way towards the spring, the vernal equinox. The word equinox is derived from the Latin word aequi, which means "equal," and nox, which means "night." Bit by bit, the days are getting longer, and soon, they will be equal to the night. Yet here we sit on what seems like the 58th of January to so many of us.
We are examining over the coming months how we can pay closer attention to the world around us and the world within us. How this practice can fix our eyes and recalibrate our hearts back to the God who created it all. It is much like any other exercise; small efforts to pay attention to what is around us build a muscle to continually look for something beautiful, even in the dead of winter.
If you can't seem to muster up the strength to get out into the winter, here is your permission to rest or perhaps start with a gentle inquiry of the world within. Interestingly enough, when I was reading the words of Parker Palmer earlier this year, in the throws of our earthly summer, I was experiencing a bit of spiritual winter. So I did what I always know to do first, I took a walk. If you are in that place, silly as it may seem, that may be a good place to start. Get outside. Look for something new. Pay attention to the beating of your heart. Make a mental note, take a picture, perhaps even write it down. Though I don't pretend that our winters will pass quickly or with a single glance of beauty, I do trust that our orienting our attention towards what is beautiful over time may help them pass with a little less dread.
Sixty days. That is the amount of time until the day and the night become equal. Bit by bit, the days are getting longer. I am committed to getting out into the winter, harsh as it may be. Maybe you will join me, and we can walk together.
You need to experience some walks at End Picture Farm. There's nothing like them in middle Tennessee. Lock box is on the front door. Wood is stacked and ready to share its warmth. Silence, peace and perspective are served up daily. You're always invited.
Thank you for this. I experience Seasonal Depression as many do and can falsely believe "escape" to somewhere warm is the answer. Sometimes it is. And I love my warm trip for a few days. But the key is to flourish where you are..to realize God's presence more and more each day wherever you are. I LOVE the idea of a daily walk outside in the winter. The winters will drive you crazy until you learn to get out into them." - I will be marinating on this idea for a while. Thank you. Walking with -