“Sing us the songs of a billion stars…”

~from Solstice Song by Jan Garrett

 

 

It shouldn’t be possible.

In fact, it is clearly impossible.

How does a singular seed buried in the iron-hard ground of winter bring forth bright green life in the spring?

How does a bear survive with a heart rate that slows to less than ten beats per minute?

And what about these grey Western Larches that surround us? Their mouldering black branches have lost their golden needles. The gold has turned to a brown rotting carpet at their feet.

But in the Spring, those dead-looking trees will somehow once again manage to bust out bright lime-coloured needles.

 

 

 

We humans have tried to believe we are separate from the nature we inhabit. We have worked hard to fulfill our wrongheaded edict to have dominion over all that surrounds us.

With artificial light we lit up our buildings and began the industrial revolution. We then created a world wide web that helped us perpetrate the belief that we were superior to, and separate from, the natural order of things.

This wrong-headed belief has been, and continues to be, our undoing. I think the collective mistake we made was to cast ourselves as the Observers. We tune into the Discovery Channel and believe that because we are watching, we are somehow set apart.

Still, we yearn for that more primal connection to the natural world. I recently read an article about the artisanal axe movement. Axes have become a totemic item, harkening back to a ‘simpler’ time of hewing wood and hauling water. These expensive axes now find their homes in city apartments; a  faux-connection to another time. Rather ironically, they’ve chosen the very instrument that helped cut down the trees they’re hoping to connect with.

In our lives together, Kevin and I have lived country and city lives. We had the garden in Campbell River, the suburban life of Mission and the oceanside world in Sechelt that included three chickens. We also lived in quite a few Vancouver apartments. What all those lives had in common was a location somewhere on the West Coast of British Columbia.

Now, we live high in the mountains, a time zone away from the Coast, tucked between the Purcell and Rocky Mountain ranges. Here, winter includes the deep stillness of snow. Snow absorbs sound, wrapping me in a quilt of quiet and creating a strong urge to nestle into the darkness.

 

 

 

Certainly, there is the invigorating snowshoe stomp or ski during the short daytime, but the dark comes early and the fireplace lures with light and warmth.

The books are piled, the puzzles are out, candles are replaced regularly and all the chairs and sofas have extra blankets. Like the bears in their caves and the seeds in the dark ground, the environment reminds me to pull back, to reflect and hunker in, warm and safe.

I feel like I’ve joined into the unseen rhythm of the world around and within me. I know that I am as much a part of the natural world as the bear.

Still, my ongoing work is to challenge those remaining socialized beliefs that tells me I’m separate from all that surrounds me. Instead I keep reminding myself that it’s okay to just be and that winter is the time to slow down.

 

 

I hope you’ll join me. Pull back from the endless artificial light and the digitally-constructed world and do a deep dive into the delicious nature of the cave.

We might find we sink a little. And yes, there might be melancholy involved. That’s okay. It’s how it works. In fact, I’d be a little suspicious if there wasn’t a little sadness mixed in with it all. After all, friends and family members have died. We’ve buried our pets and lost more than we care to remember. Death too, is within the natural order of things.

But this does not mean that we should fear the dark. Instead, it is there to nurture us and help us to grow.  This is our time to reflect and ask ourselves where our journey has brought us.

Turn off the news. Light a candle. Build a fire. Pull up a chair. Nestle under that blanket. Open a book. It’s okay to settle in, put up your feet, take a deep breath and be quiet.

Remember your truest nature. Be like the seed and have faith in your future. Feel your heartbeat match the far-off ocean waves and the sighing of the trees. Look up to the night sky. Breathe in unison with the timelessness of the earth.

Be still and know that it’s going to be okay.

 

 

Embrace your winter.

 

 

 

 

PS:

Here’s a song we learned from our Winter Concert. I hope you enjoy it too.

 

https://cypresschoral.com/composers/larry-nickel/solstice-song/

 

 

Further reading:

Annie Dillard on the Winter Solstice

Hibernation Fun Facts 

Our Lives in the Time of Extremely Fancy Axes