Winter Well

For as long as I can remember, I have endured Winter.
I have no enjoyed it.
I have not delighted in it, used it, anticipated it, or waited for it with bated breath.

I have known, like any New Englander (and while not one by birth, I believe my 20 odd years of New England winters should designate me at least the honorary claim), that
Winter Was Coming And I Needed To Prepare.

As a child in Canada, I found winter mesmerizing at first. Coming from a place like Australia, where the winters were comparable to the best possible slightly drizzly day in late May according to Canadian Meteorological rules, I found the relentless deposits of snow and blistering cold to be fascinating in the way that only a child can be fascinated by things that can kill her.

I made snow men. I snowshoed. I skied. I tried ice skating and wasn't terrible at it. I shoveled and was abysmal at it. I learned how to tie a scarf around my face and pull my hat down in negative forty degree weather so that only your eyes were exposed, and then I learned what frozen eyelashes felt like.

When we moved to Maine, the luster had very much rubbed off of Winter.
As a teenager I was required to be moody and hate everything, and so I hated Winter fiercely.
I hated it for keeping me indoors (when all I wanted to do was read anyway).
I hated it for the shoveling my parents demanded I do every time there was a blizzard.
I hated it for the feeling of cold that seeped into my bones and which could only be driven away by gaining five to ten pounds in three months and as a teenage girl this was the kind of Catch 22 that made one suicidal.
By the time I had enough fat on me to keep the cold away, the cold went away on its own, and it was presumed that I should be ready to strut around in the shortest of denim shorts and flimsiest sundresses as only true New England girls do once the thermometer goes above 50 outside.

As a young adult, I escaped Winter by having a love affair with California.
I have yet to resolve my feelings about this country's West Coast, but suffice it to say, that there is somewhere nestled to the Pacific where I am certain I could have the New England bled right out of me if I were to try. And I wouldn't hate it.

But here's where I am with Winter now.
I am in my mid-thirties, a time, when a great deal of uncertainty and self doubt begins to move out of the rotation on the "Most Important Things To Obsess About on an Hourly Basis" list.

I had a baby a little over two years ago, and so many of the things on that list have little to nothing to do with me anymore at all.

Then there is the peculiarity of Winter.

In a time when we are pressured to constantly move.
A time when we are never successful enough, beautiful enough, relevant enough, rich enough, clever enough, well read enough, charitable enough, funny enough, fuckable enough, or productive enough...
A time when you feel like you must update your blog your twitter your facebook your instagram your "followers' your friends you family with every single moment of your completely ordinary day and somehow sell it like it was something superior to everyone else's completely ordinary day...

In this time, Winter makes you stop.

Winter doesn't give you a reason to go out.
Winter forces you to find reasons to stay in and slow down.

Winter makes you stay inside your head, inside your house, inside yourself.

And as a person in these times, that is quite difficult.

In fact, I watch many many people take this time to escape themselves very seriously.
The book vacations using credit cards and scamper away to the tropics where they can run around and pretend their lives aren't waiting for them the moment they get back.
They go on cruises so laughably distracting from the routines of everyday life that they must create new routines inside their ship lives to keep from going mad.
They expunge all evidence of the holidays and dedicate themselves religiously to militaristic diet and exercise regimens that fill their brains with calculations and meaningless arithmetic all boiling down to DO YOU OR DO YOU NOT DESERVE A COOKIE WORTHLESS FLESH MACHINE?

Very few people actually dwell inside the Winter, and thusly, themselves.

Do not be fooled.

Even the bullshit American appropriation of hygge-hype has nothing to do with the actual ministrations of what hygge stands for. It's much more a way of excusing one's introverted behavior by means of hashtag.

Gods forbid we don't feel guilty for sitting on our couch with a book and a cup of tea.

Which is what I am getting at.

In Winter, I clean my house.
I scrub the cupboards and I purge my closets.
I pine sol the bathroom and I reorganize all the books on my shelves.
I do this, because I am spending so much more time inside I want it to be a nice place to be.
I buy a couple of fat candles that I will enjoy lighting when the sun leaves us at 4:23pm.

I invest in a nice brand of hot chocolate, and the good biscuits, or I learn to bake a new kind of cookie that I can put in my little cookie jar and feel very fancy when I reach in and there they are, all warm and slightly crumbly from the dry air.

I don't fuss with exercise.

If the weather is decent, I take a walk, but never for distance, only for silence, to appreciate the ocean, or the way the world goes all to whispers during a snowstorm.

If there's been a snowstorm, I get up, first thing in the morning, put on my favorite music on my headphones, and I shovel out the driveway. While I do this, I fantasize about the enormous breakfast and twelve cups of coffee I am going to have when I am done because nothing is so delicious as the food and drink you consume after shoveling snow.

I don't worry about gaining weight. If I do, it will keep me warm.
If I don't, I have a thirty pound baby who likes to take naps on my chest for that.

It's almost sneaked up on me, but I believe I have finally learned how to winter.

And Winter well at that.