Expanding

An End-of-Year Realization

During a brief stretch of unseasonably warm weather earlier this week, when the snow melted on driveways and sidewalks, I ventured to a nearby park for a long ambling walk. The snow-packed trails wound around poised trees, each gathered along the frozen edge of a small pond. Bare brown tree branches and dried native grasses bordered both sides of the well-worn trail. And even though I walked alone, I could see evidence of those who journeyed there before me: snowshoe prints punctuated the compact snow, sunken dog prints left rivets in the path like canine craters. While walking on my afternoon sojourn, I reacquainted myself with colors, textures, and sounds noticeably missing in my daily life.

My world shrinks during late December. I inhabit a muted vista sculpted by cold weather, early nightfalls, and a reluctance to engage with anyone living outside my home. Short jaunts to the mailbox across a snowy road may entail the breadth of my adventures during the holiday break. I thought this insular nature — this determination to keep things close — was a vestige of self-care I lovingly gifted myself each winter break. I equated an inward focus with rejuvenation. I convinced myself that living quietly during the holidays translated into a sense of purpose, a fresh wash of renewal to inform my existence after the new year.

But, perhaps I was wrong.

As I pushed forward on my trek through the park, I wondered if my end-of-year ritual of staying home may actually deprive me of interconnecting with the landscape, the people, the possibilities around me, even in deep December. Perhaps I’m not meant to follow the cue of fellow cold-weather dwellers who hibernate until warmer weather arrives?

Further ahead on my walk, I soon spotted a gorgeous rust-colored leaf encased in the snow. When I crouched down to observe it more closely, I spotted linear veins running outward toward the edge of the leaf. It looked perfectly preserved, like tree confetti celebrating fall’s resplendent colors.

When I ensconce myself indoors, I miss the beauty of leathery leaves adhered to icicle snow. My world becomes too compact. Too tidy.

I plodded further along the path and embraced the forest silence. This quietude, it’s not the absence of sound, but rather the presence — the aliveness — of collective living things humming through their ordinary existence. Occasionally a peal of laughter erupted from a nearby sledding hill, piercing the forest hush with giddiness, joy. I, too, felt the sledders’ anticipation as they prepared for an exhilarating whoosh towards the bottom of the slick hillside.

Gardening gives me a rush. Outside, I acquaint myself with worms, grey squirrels, wild rabbits, robins, moths and butterflies — with soft, warm breezes on a sultry July afternoon and gentle patches of fog in late October when fall’s cold air descends upon still warm soil. I follow bunny tracks across garden beds after the first snow fall. I stand still in the backyard at dawn, listening to birds chatter, screech, and titter in the tree canopy above me. Waiting patiently at dusk, I catch the sweet aroma of night-blooming jasmine placed twelve feet from my back door. My world of garden beds and container pots is generous, significant, expansive. I miss it in winter months.

What would it mean to expand instead of contract in late December? This thought occurred to me after the winter solstice, when I observed the horizon line in a barren landscape. Even though all around me wisps of white and grey formed a frozen tundra, I perceived a spot in the distance where the margins met. Here, gratitude joined longing. Darkness paired with light.

We all meet in the middle.

I haven’t figured it all out yet. But come next November, when the daylight recedes before dinner time and the temperatures plummet, I’ll consider expanding, not contracting. I’ll reframe rejuvenation as experiences in nature, in the world, and with people.

Thanks for reading this month’s essay. See you back in late January.

-Betsy