These have been some dark days, somehow darker than I remember them ever being before. Of course there may be some selective memory at work when it comes to winter, and the inevitable cropping of days, the diminishing sunlight, the brief bursts of sun before it sinks low in the sky. But it's also an exquisite time of year, in spite of, or perhaps because of its somber, more severe character.
I struggle with the lack of sunlight, like many people, but I also feel a comfort in the steady rhythm of the seasons. There's something magical in the shortest, darkest days of the year--we must seek it out in the same way we chase the light, and in some instances, we must struggle to stay grounded, to remain calm and carry warmth within us when December presents us with its abbreviated, and sometimes bone-chilling days.
I feel a deeper compulsion this time of year to relish even the most fragmented moments of light, whether it's the sun suddenly piercing through my windows at work, beckoning my gaze toward the trees outside, or if I'm lucky to be out of doors, when the sun suddenly breaks through the grey and the winter sky takes on a muted pink glow, illuminating everything--the sidewalks, the tops of buildings, the trees, passerby--everything seems to sigh with relief, even if only for a moment. The good news is, we've reached and have now officially surpassed the winter solstice, and little by little, the sun will slowly return.
On Saturday, the eve of the Solstice, we woke up to a rainy, soggy winter's morning, and though the weather persisted all day, we were determined to find our way into the woods for a much-needed hike. While we were a little worried we'd be forced to abandon our trek due to soggy clothes and muddy boots, we had a happy discovery: the trees provided a warm, protective canopy over us, leaving us to wander up the trails in a cloud of mist--which felt very much like being near the ocean.
The cool air, the bursts of green moss creeping along the sides of rocks and trees, and the sounds of geese honking and trumpeting in lovely lines and V's across the sky were all such hopeful, bright moments in what might have otherwise remained a very dark, very short day.
We spotted this cute little tree all on its own, a solitary vestige of autumn days. We wished it well and wondered how its orange could persist like this? Such a sweet little one.
Joe was excited to see what had become of the eagle's nest we'd spotted in the late summer. We saw the nest, but no eagles this time. My assumption, without being keen to the migratory patterns of any bird, is that they've found a new haven for the winter months. I'll have to investigate this one further...
Perhaps one of the happiest moments of the hike: Happening upon a foursome of deer eating a late lunch in a bed of grass. My head was down, checking my footfalls, trying to avoid stumbling, and when I looked up I locked eyes with this lovely creature. We were at a comfortable distance not to frighten them away, and to avoid ruining their grazing hour, we cut off the trail and veered left so we could peek back from time to time, but avoid coming too close.
This photo is a little foggy, but I was happy the outline of our deer friend came through. I'm also happy to report that they all remained exactly where they were, undisturbed, though a staring contest ensued for a good while there.
It was completely dark as we drove home, the rain beating down on the windshield, and I felt so relieved that we'd had this time outside. So quiet, so still, so much brighter.
And then there was this hot toddy after dinner. (Yes, that's also chocolate cake in the background. Not homemade, but absolutely divine. Both a very good idea this time of year.)
What are your plans this week? Is a stroll in the woods in the cards? I'd love to hear.
No comments:
Post a Comment