Seasonal detour

Where is Winter hiding?

Today’s accompanying tune: “Winter Winds” by Mumford and Sons

Winter is running late. Winter grabbed her keys before realizing the trash needed to go out, the dogs needed walking, that one shelf was looking dustier than usual. She had every intention of leaving on time, she really did, but her gas tank was low and she had a letter to drop at the Post Office. She hit traffic, she had one of those days where every stop light turns to yellow, then red, as she approached it. She was stuck behind a semi truck huffing up the grade, going well below the speed limit. She saw an abandoned dog on the side of the road and stopped to try and secure it. She was simply stunned into silence by the sunset, and pulled over the breath it in.

Before you know it, it is mid-January and winter is still out there, somewhere, trying to make it to her destination in time. Because winter has a deadline, an inevitable turning of the seasons and angling of the Earth as to invite warmth, longer days, bluer skies. Winter knows this — some years she overstays her welcome, her blustery self secure well into the brighter days of April. She knows her time has come, but can’t bear to leave. She has more storms to send, more wind to whip, more darkness to unfurl. Just one more, she whispers to the buds patiently waiting on the trees. Just one more time, and then I’ll leave. Just one more time, and then you can get to work bringing the plants back to life, the reptiles out of their dens, the doves to their nests. Winter can be tough to love — some years she is kind, gentle, peaceful yet cold. Some years she has an avalanche of tears to shed, washing away roadways and flooding low-lying areas. You never know which version of Winter will show up, if she does at all. So, often, we let her stay, unwilling to let her go just yet. Reluctant to turn our eyes to Summer in all her scorching glory, her obvious kind of beauty, her persistence and heat. We let Winter stay, let her linger among the mountaintops and drop just one more dusting, one more time, for old times’ sake.

We don’t know what Winter’s excuse will be, what she will offer when she finally arrives. If she arrives. If she will tell us tales of adventure, of courage, of foes defeating and victims saved. If she will reach into the backseat and pull out a gift, just for us, to thank us for our patience and apologize for her tardiness. Maybe she will send her friend the Moon to explain ahead of her arrival the reasons for which she was delayed, a cosmic gathering meant to assuage our worst fears. That Winter is gone. That Winter has ended up in a terrible accident far from home, suffering and unable to let us help her. Unable to get to us. Unable to bring our core temperature low, reset us in the darkness, calm us before the activity of Summer rounds the bend yet again. Maybe she has been taken by a force even stronger than she, held captive somewhere no human can discover. Held against her will, marking the passage of time on the walls as the days brighten, lengthen, warm. Is there anything we can do to help her? To save her? To save ourselves?

What, exactly, do we owe Winter? She has never asked for much, merely a place to stay as she continues her incessant journey onwards through time. She stops here, she stops there — she meanders around the hemispheres, filling her long nights with splashes of color on the edges and pinpricks of the brightest lights in the round middle. She brings mystery, she brings stories from far-flung villages many people will never know. She brings delight as the snow wafts through the air, landing on dogs’ noses and children’s eyelashes. She brings a desire to cozy up with a warm beverage, a soothing balm to the crispness outdoors. She often settles in for a new year, a changing of the calendar, a new start under the cover of darkness. She gathers families, delays travel at the world’s airports, and requires a new set of car tires more durable than those required for Summer. All this, she does, without asking for much in return. She does not care that many people despise her, dread her, ask her to leave. It doesn’t bother her that some people depart at the first evidence of her arrival, headed for a meeting with Summer on her own journey. She is comfortable in herself, in the cold and darkness, in the softer light of a southern sun.

Truthfully, we owe Winter everything. We owe her our steadiness, our calm, our peace. The slowness that allows for more growth, more intention, more action come Summer. The rest of the soil — so prone to overworking — yielding more to harvest for its lack of work during Winter. The water — so much water. Water stored in ice, in snow, in storms that refill the underground aquifers that feed entire cities. The glaciers of the mountains, of the oceans, cradled by Winter while they shudder from loss during Summer. The trips to see loved ones, the trips to beachside villas, all halted if Winter doesn’t arrive. The reset, delayed. The unending grind of Summer, all her activity and all her heat, never stopped. The glare of the inevitable, the acrid smoke of ruin, left to run roughshod over the earth in Winter’s absence. Without her, we are on borrowed time. Without her, we have little respite, fewer chances to rest and breathe and gather ourselves for the season to come. Our nervous systems fried, our hope diminished, our goals shelved in favor of survival.

We cannot make it without Winter. She is the only one keeping us from flying out over the edge and into the abyss — she uses all her strength, every tool in her arsenal, to keep the inevitable at bay for a bit longer.

Just one more time, she whispers, trying to make it in time. In time for her. In time for us.

Here’s to hoping she arrives soon.

- Megan