The Magic of Midwinter

Female California Quail 

Melancholy were the sounds on a winter's night.

~Virginia Woolf

In the old times, in the old languages, before the church absconded with and revised what came before, December and January were the time of the Yule, the time of the feasts and celebrations, the honoring of Midwinter, the sacred darkness and the return of the light. It is by far my favorite time of year, when I can feel deep inside the holiness, the profound mystical mystery that we are part of. It is also my most difficult time of year. Not only my current circumstances that keep me homebound during the holidays, but the anniversaries of losses that these months hold. One minute I am immersed in the sanctity of the time, the next, a shadow passes, a scent, a sound, a memory, and I am plunged into darkness. 

Last week in therapy a remarkable seeing occurred, an epiphany, when I told my therapist that I did not want to lose this precious time to grief, to despair again this year. It's not that I want to override these difficult emotions, or, more importantly, the parts of me that feel them, the ones that have been traumatized, that are in pain, that have been exiled or excluded or discarded, that feel so utterly alone. It's that I want to make space for it all, to allow all that wants or needs to be here to be included in the precious landscape of this time, that is more precious because of the richness of all parts, of all emotions. This time of year is, after all, a celebration of both dark and light.

When our session ended, when we said goodbye and I closed my laptop I knew only that I had stumbled onto what I wanted to happen, what I hoped would be, but not how this might come about, how I might actively show up in a new way. I began to think about my great love of nature. The way it sustains me. I think about the fact that midwinter is all about nature, about the turning of our earth, about quiet, stillness, rest, endings, and also, of course, beginnings. I cannot control what I feel in any given moment, in fact, the work of healing is all about allowing and honoring, welcoming, making a home for everything. The idea is not to resist anything, change anything, just to actively invite something else in as well. 

I can, for example, pick up my camera each morning, no matter how I am feeling. I can leave my house before my daughter is up, if even for a few minutes. I can go in search of a leaf, a twig, a branch, a tree, a bird, a seedpod, an acorn, the rising sun, the valley fog, the hills. And who knows what might want to reveal itself. The cold might wholly invigorate me. I might one morning find myself buffeted by winds, watching overwhelmed with gratefulness as storm clouds roll in, feel fat drops on my head. I might watch in wonder as leaves are whipped from trees and roll down the slick street like colorful dancers. Or the singular golden leaf floating slowing, daintily, buoyed by air, by grace as she returns to earth. 

There might be ice lining the trail, sparkling like diamonds in the sun's rays. A red-tailed hawk calling out from a dying redwood. Steam rising like old-world mist up from steep canyons. A falcon, a robin, a scrub jay, a multitude of sparrows and rock pigeons and wild turkeys. Or the most incredibly little, soft birds, birds not seen before, not identified, all over a tall blooming bush, chattering, eating seeds, demanding my full and rapt attention. Or. I might stand and stare at a large, tangled, bare of leaves California buckeye bush, just stare, when suddenly the image of a quail emerges on the ground beneath it, camouflaged so well I almost missed her, I did miss her, in fact, it is almost as though she decided to allow me to see her, to become visible to me. One of my very favorite birds, more so because of their shyness, their aloofness, and the rarity of being able to see them, much less catch a clear photograph. Tears come. Her presence, her gentle, wizened face touches me deeply. I search for others. They are family-oriented birds and most always seen in large groups called coveys. But she is alone. I wonder still about why; wonder if this is something we have in common, wonder if she is okay. 

I am, somehow, more alive with my camera in hand. I am more tuned to my surroundings. I see more in general and notice more detail, texture, color, scenery that would otherwise be missed. Scenes are indelibly marked on me. It is meditation. My mind disappears, it empties out so that my whole being can be present, can be filled with beauty, with awe, with marvel. These midwinter mornings are not for typical art making which is what I normally do with my camera. The glorious rose here, the incredible lavender there, the perfect snap of the bird, art lenses, rich, heady blues and pinks, endeavoring to create the finest images I can make. 

The intention these midwinter mornings is not art making per se so much as recording the beauty of nature for its the own sake, its own art and creation, recognizing the perfection inherent in its very being, and making a record of these mornings that can continue to hold me. The broken, crinkled leaf. The young golden-red hawk bathing in the morning light staring out from the dying tree. The spent perennial disappearing as it moves back into the rich fullness of the dark earth. Nature alive as she fades into the season. It is about reverence and devotion, receiving and giving back, loving and being loved in return. No matter how I am feeling. Even if I have been washed away in the great tide of sorrow, the solace of nature remains.

I have been astounded to read more than once recently that the earth feels our footsteps and knows our presence upon her. That trees, for example, recognize our unique beings, and that we are missed when we are no longer there. It feels like pure fantasy, the same way that the idea of a creator knowing every single hair on our heads seems like utter nonsense. But what if~  What if the spirit of earth does discern and remember each of us and our spirits? What if the world soul, the anima mundi, does indeed recognize our own souls? What if we are not separate, but one? What if we are felt, known, appreciated, loved even? What if we are communing on a level that is utterly invisible and also, staggeringly real. The very idea takes my breath away. The great and divine mystery revealing herself. 

There is magic here in Midwinter. When boundaries soften, become like the mist rising up in the icy morning. Like the veil when approaching the isle of Avalon. When divine darkness holds us tenderly as it prepares to give birth to light. Bringing epiphanies, possibilities, seeing, knowing, and above all the sacred, that invisible something, the firmament that surrounds and infuses everything, the connective tissue that holds it, the thread that weaves it all together, all of creation, every single pebble, each leaf, each cell; feathers, hair, wings, every being, each mood, from joy to sorrow, all of life. 

~💗~