Winter’s
coming. At last the leaves are dropping
from the trees’ branches, and what light there is now reaches the ground’s
surface more easily. The cats’ coats are
thicker, as are the dogs’ and calves’, the rabbits’ and reindeers’ (wherever
they are.) We here in California relish
the warmer rainy days while the rest of the country battens their hatches. Our thick Tule fog constitutes our most
dangerous weather.
I find myself torn at this time of
year. Part of me wants to hibernate, dig
out my crochet hooks and make warm woolen mittens that won’t be needed, much
less desired in a matter of weeks. The
other part of me wants to celebrate the freedom to be outside without worrying
about dehydration: skip the plastic snowflakes,
the electric candles, the evergreens brought inside against the frost that
rarely comes, much less the possibility of becoming snowed-in. Go hiking.
Witness the buckeyes resting, the blue oaks breathing freely, the grass
temporarily dead in places but ready to spring green with each watering from
above.
It’s a brief moment that we have to rest, this approach to the Solstice and Jesus’ birth. Most of us spend it hustling, doubling our work with preparing for the holiday celebrations, the decorations, the presents, the meals, the good wishes and music. Some of us spend it elsewhere, anywhere but home, hoping to avoid the hustle. Some of us spend it diving into a deep depression, one we will pull out of and survive, hopefully, shortly after New Year’s.
It hit me the other day that
Christmas – the part of winter that seems like an antidote to the fear of
dormancy - is all about
maintenance. The maintenance of love
between people who spend too much time away from our immediate spheres. The maintenance of faith, a yearly renewal of
the magical mystery in the story that guides our attempts to be forgiving the
other 11 months of the year. The
maintenance of a sense of history through the practice of traditions handed to us
through stockings hung on the fireplace mantle and the equally magical mystery
of Santa Claus. Christmas is a way of
sweeping clean the garbage and burned-out coals from the year’s fires.
So let’s give it a rest, if just for
a couple of weeks – through the planetary wonder of Solstice, through Christmas
Eve’s celestial communication. Through
the post-Christmas morning pandemonium, toward the somewhat trepidatious New
Year. Winter is a time of regeneration,
not death. Be strong as you choose your
path through this season. It’s all about
keeping on keeping on.
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Trudy
Wischemann is an ambivalent celebrator who writes. You can share your trepidations c/o P.O. Box
1374, Lindsay CA 93247 or visit www.trudysnotesfromhome.blogspot.com and leave a
message there.
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