It’s easy to write this season off as one of death. We feel the cold of loneliness and the sting of wind on our chapped cheeks while hoping for the warmth of the sun’s return. We relish for light- a light to save us, a light to illuminate the truth we deeply long for. Grief visits many this season, because we cannot reconcile what our eyes behold. What once was alive, colorful, vivid is so dull and dreary. The trees are threadbare and color is void. Even the clouds look dim and the sun, if it visits, never stays long.
I like living in a place with four seasons. I believe each season must be savored. If we open our eyes to see, we find this winter that death isn’t here at all. Winter is instead only a season of rest. While the landscape appears to the unseeing eye as a burial of sorts, it brings forth no sense of finality. If we truly gaze upon the world outside we can see unique, beautiful ice crystals join in harmony to blanket the earth, tucking in the sleeping grass. Seeds from trees and flowers are merely suspended in time- frozen- but will again receive water, air, light and life and flourish in more temperate days. The tracks in the snowy outdoors show the forrest world is wide awake, as squirrels, mice and chipmunks still forage to find living things to eat, such as the remnants of nuts and seeds. Some heartier foliage continue to push through the frozen crust, also- signs of life amongst the stark landscape.
We tend to want to rush through this time, this season of winter so plagued with darkness. This time where the bitter cold reminds us of the bitter truth: our mortal selves are reminded that we, too, will grow cold and return to the barren earth.
Grief is always an invitation to rest.
Instead of despising the winter, I’ve grown to love it. I’ve come to find, time and time again, winter after frigid winter, that resurrection comes. That new life will spring forth, and light will stay to make for happier and longer days. I welcome the invitation to cozy down into the darkness and rest. To slow the hustle and the bustle, instead of trying to deny the frigidity my bones can feel when going out and about busily, avoiding the reminder that all things slow and rest and come to the end of themselves. Winter is the season of slow, and I welcome it with a big inahle, holding it dearer. As the cold travels through my airways, opening up my lungs and freshening my breath, I remember the truth of it all. Letting go and embracing change hurts, but can also be healing and good. For nothing can grow- not even humans- unless we welcome the season of rest.