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December 2012

Having finally had this year’s very-late first proper snowfall, it’s time to explore the wonders of the white stuff. Almost every kid loves the snow, as much for its fun aspects as its power to close school. For me, it was, and remains, the enchanting blanket that transformed forests and streets, houses and hills, the ugly and the dead, into something magical, something beautiful, something pristine and perfect. It was, far quicker than time, the great equalizer. It stilled and silenced, and hushed the world with one fell swoop.

When I was little, I used to traipse out into the forest behind our house, bundled up in a snowsuit so heavy and thick I could barely walk, in moon boots and mittens so clumsy it’s a wonder I didn’t simply roll about like some tottering weeble. Somehow I made it into the woods, where I would spend hours sliding down banks, making snow forts, hiding beneath the snowdrifts beside drooping evergreens, and imagining worlds of solitude and wonder. I wandered alone in the beauty, content with what was suddenly sublime. Trails of squirrels and rabbits were ghostly reminders that others were around, somewhere, and it was enough just to know. The quiet back then was not eerie, the stillness not worrisome, and when it snows now I go back to that peace, and I remember.

Only a rose, dying away… so sang Little Edie as the house she lived in decayed and fell to pieces around her. We all have our ‘Grey Gardens’ moments, when the world passes us by, when we get stuck in a rut and seem unable to move forward, frozen in a moment of time that stalls and repeats. That kind of stagnation is death to me, and it’s time to shake the shackles in some way.

Like the faded rose seen here, there is a certain dangerous beauty to the past, even when it’s but an echo of former glory. The summer never lasts, and the winter is long. Our gardens are only in our memories now, slumbering beneath the snow, sleeping until the sun returns.

And just like that, Christmas is over. We’ll get a few more days out of it, tie it into New Year’s and everything, but from here on out there’s nothing but a slow, or quick, fade. I did my best to get into the spirit, but sickness and residual strife were difficult to overcome. Maybe next year. That’s the joy of Christmas, you can always try it again when you’ve forgotten how awful it can be. For now, I look to the sun as it sets in the barren boughs of a cherry tree.  The days are only getting longer from here on out, and it is the time to sow the seeds of change.

The warmth of cherry wood will see us through the remaining Winter. And what remains is the bulk of it, so buck up. This ain’t no cakewalk.