Winter the Magnificent

For decades I used running to withstand the Winter Blues. As a teenager, I intuited it had an effect, though I wouldn’t learn it was an evidence-based approach until much later. I only knew that it made me distinctly happier, especially when the days shortened.

If I’m doing things to keep my mood fluffy during these months — which I do, as the alternative is the pits — then Winter is a magnificent talisman I hold in my hand and whisper my devotion to through the cold, dark nights. It isn’t simply the thrill of the first snow or the silhouette of the trees. It is everything.

For example, Orion, the warrior constellation, prevails over the Northern Hemisphere from his prone position on the horizon starting in October. He moves to an upright guardianship by December and then back to sleep by February’s end. I am an Orion devotee. If you think you don’t know him, you probably do. His famous belt is three stars in a line. You can’t miss it.

As I age, I think about the last time I’ll ever see him. I figure I won’t know I’m living the last winter of Orion as I’m living it, so I try to remember to say goodbye to him each year and thank him for sticking around for my birthday in the last days of February. If I have nobody at my birthday party, I always have him.

Our annual contemplation

Winter brings you into yourself so you can become reacquainted with the person you put inside the beach ball and bounced around in the summer light. That person is jouncy, perky, and bright. There is another person, though, who comes out when the days grow small, and the mind grows large to encompass the annual solstice contemplation on existence and meaning. This is the person we become in the quiet dark. I love them both.

I’ve been taking night walks with my oldest son these days. We freeze our buns off but still do it because the winter night sky is worth any number of frozen capillaries. Around here, the winter night sky is a special case, because we have so many tall trees that devour the sky except during these few cold months. In winter you can see birds, stars, and planes unobstructed.

My son and I chat aimlessly about any old thing when we walk, or we enjoy the silence — it’s something we sense about the other. Should I talk now, or contribute to the peaceful quiet? I think after many walks over the years, we’ve got it down to a science. Sometimes, I use this precious time to get tutored by my son, as I’ve done since he was a kid. I ask him to teach me something I don’t understand or know. I listen and ask questions. It’s a fabulous arrangement for so many reasons.

The jazzy and the hushed

This year was the first in years I didn’t have my Christmas outdoor lights up by December 1st. It’d been rainy here, I’d been nauseous, tweaked my knee — solid reasons I suppose. Normally, I’d have fretted over it, but not this year. Inside I had the place lit and decorated, while outside there was a simple, blank quality which I found peaceful — as if a reminder that underneath all the pomp of the holidays there is still the regular earth biding its time through the cold. It’s a tale of two realities, and I rather like the juxtaposition.

Meanwhile, across the street where my son and I do our night strolls, there is a light show to behold — houses in glowing continuity. In the dark on a stroll, this is jazzy and heartwarming. I like that we leave the darkness of our yard, circulate through the sparkling lampposts and gutters across the way, and then return to the winter stillness of our home. It’s a reminder that Winter is like this. It’s to be lit and warmed. It’s to be recognized for its inky lull on the annual clock.

A week ago, I asked my son if he wanted to do a quick walk and he obliged. We got our coats, gloves, and shoes on, opened the front door, and woosh! What was this? A thick mist filled the night air. It gets like this in other places of the world, which I’ve experienced, but here it’s uncommon. It was incredible.

The nearly full moon was a hazy beacon in the dreamscape around us. Its light-filled each microscopic drop of fog, turning the magnitude of them into magical air. The lights across the way were suddenly miracle shapes, spreading geometric light rays in complicated patterns from their edges. Even the giant inflatable figures were otherworldly. It was an alternate universe.

To revel in this season

When we got home, my son went back to his work, and I popped open the first of my bins of outdoor holiday lights. Little by little, I draped a few bushes with the electrical décor. I wrapped a tree trunk. I plugged it all in and — ta-da — I was done. Nothing fancy but something bright and happy to see out my kitchen window.

I’m happy to be able to share this season with others through calls, emails, cards, walks, dinners, and gatherings. I’m cheered to hear holiday music and sing traditional songs. I’m happy to bake and draw cartoons. These are the lights that brighten this time of year.

We can easily see Winter as a cold, austere time. Or we can notice its delicate personality and the fact that it’s a canvas for our human expression of wistfulness as well as joy. I embody the former, but I revel in the latter.

Like I said, Winter the Magnificent.