What are the gifts of winter?
Punxsutawney Phil didn’t see his shadow yesterday. If superstition has its way, winter will fade early into spring. I adore spring. It feels so good to come out, all of us little ants, into the warming sunshine.
And yet, I am definitely not ready for spring. I need more time to abide in the distinctive gifts of winter, more time to sink into its wisdom. What are those gifts? What is that wisdom?
Edith Sitwell was a British poet. For her, winter was “the time for comfort, for good food and warmth, for the touch of a friendly hand and for a talk beside the fire.” It is, as she summarizes, “time for home.”
American painter, Andrew Wyeth, preferred winter because it enables us to “feel the bone structure of the landscape — the loneliness of it…Something waits beneath it, the whole story doesn’t show.” Don’t we need, so direly, this bold testament to the benefits of mystery and suggestion.
“Winter has a concentrated and nutty kernel, if you know where to look for it,” a jaybird told American philosopher, naturalist, and writer, Henry David Thoreau, who then told us.
What is that concentrated and nutty kernel? Where do you look for it?