The frost has settled in here. It snuck in overnight, causing a scramble for coats and boots, hats and mittens this morning before school. We worked out the minute intricacies of how each new zipper and fastener works, looking for the secret jimmies and tricks to getting outside quickly. Car seat straps adjusted for extra bulk and seat backs covered for boot kicks.
It is a cold, sunny day in the East. The first thrilling glimpse of winter is here. Today is a day when a hat is not optional, a fleece jacket alone won't cut it. The first step along a long, cold path towards darkness, and heaviness, and snow-covered months. And while the solstice isn't technically until December, winter settles in much earlier than that around here.
Everything seems harder in the winter. More bundling. More time to get places. Less sunlight to cheer us on through the chill. Dirt and wet in every corner, trudged in on heavy boots, muddy paws and dripping mittens. But for now we're just at the beginning. We look at each other and make winter jokes about snow brushes and shovels, try on our coats from last year and search for matching gloves. The frost is novel, and the sunlight glinting on icy leaves is charming. For now.
We have four birthdays to celebrate in our home this winter. C is turning 40 next week, in a few days actually. Then a week later O will be one. One whole year. Then my birthday, in February. Only E was born in the warmth and sunshine of summer.
Of course Calla's birthday is right in the middle of winter. At the beginning of January, when the calendar turns to another new year. Forever I will associate the coldest depths of winter with her death and birth, that freezing night in January when I wanted to burn myself alive.
And so looking to winter, feeling our corner of the Earth turning away from the sunlight, makes my heart a little heavier. My soul is bundling up, fortifying its reserves for the long season ahead. There are some wonderful warm oases sprinkled throughout the upcoming months of our frigid desert winter, and during the dark days I will lumber, head down and hopefully, towards them.
Right now it is sunny and cold, but soon it will be gray and icy, and simply going outside will seem like too much of a bother. Right now the chilis and soups and breads and oven-baked dinners are satisfying. Right now winter seems survivable.
About Me
- Mary Beth
- My life on the run. Balancing family, mental and physical exercise, and all the emotional baggage accumulated throughout several decades of living.
I get this.
ReplyDeleteMostly because I grew up in Buffalo and winter to me was always "something i had to survive".
and I always felt the stillness and bitter cold related to death in so many ways.
sending love and warmth <3
Snow here yesterday and several inches predicted for this weekend. I need to get up in the attic for the coats and mittens and snow pants and boots (think I have things that will fit everyone this year). I'm not quite ready for winter yet, for the cold or the darkness or December. My dark month falls in winter too.
ReplyDeleteI've fastened my cardigan up reading this. Sending you love and strength and extra layers for the cold months ahead and hoping that those lovely oases sustain you through the difficult parts x
ReplyDeleteIt does seem fitting for a baby, if they are going to die, to do it in winter. Camillie died in the middle of the summer, sunny, hot, bright and relentlessly summery... It seems that such sadness should be reflected by the earth. that in some way the world would recognize our pain and stop turning if even for a moment. I think another hard thing about January is for many it is a time of rebirth of looking toward the next year with aniticpation and expectation. When your daughter is dead it is impossible to not be constantly looking to the past. I know we continue to hope, it is a beautiful thing that flutters in our hearts, and yet there is this constant looking back, wishing things were different. Sending you love as you travel toward the darkness both in winter and your heart.
ReplyDeleteGod this was good:
ReplyDelete"My soul is bundling up, fortifying its reserves for the long season ahead. There are some wonderful warm oases sprinkled throughout the upcoming months of our frigid desert winter, and during the dark days I will lumber, head down and hopefully, towards them."
It was 87 today in LA. We are no where near fucking winter. I can barely see autumn, unless I drive into the mountains behind our city.
"Forever I will associate the coldest depths of winter with her death and birth, that freezing night in January when I wanted to burn myself alive."
ReplyDeleteNothing I think of saying feels worthy of what you are writing, but I don't want to send silence. I love to hear what you have to say, and how you say it. Please, don't hold back, and don't stop. (Not meant as pressure, though. I know sometimes it's just too hard to say anything.)
Calla, I am thinking of you and your remarkable mother. Every day.
Cathy in Missouri