The Nightingale Sings
February 9–13, Amherst, MA USA
Seasonal Memoir #56
Writing is hard. Check that. Writing something coherent and meaningful is hard, just as there is a difference between saying something cogent and purposeful and just talking. Nevertheless, though most people don’t seem to read anymore, I’ll keep up with these journal entries, to leave something for my children to read in future years, or even just for posterity’s sake. Fifty-five “seasonal memoirs” and counting, with the goal to complete one full calendar year (72).
I used to hate the winter: the cold, the slush, the dirty snow piled up for days and weeks. But I’m starting to see it differently over time, and starting to believe that winter may be the most beautiful of all the seasons. Let me count the ways.
- Things slow down. On an atomic level, this is literal, as kinetic energy (energy from moving objects) decreases when temperatures lower (atoms move slower); but things also seem to visibly slow down as well, perhaps because of the next point…
- Weaknesses must be concealed or compensated for. You know quickly when you haven’t dressed properly for being outside in the cold, but animals have a much more precarious challenge, as they live much closer to the edge of life and death, where an injury could quickly spiral into something fatal, or when shelter can’t be found. The goal is to expend as little energy as possible, as energy requires food, and food in the winter is difficult to find.
- You can feel the presence of creatures underfoot. Because so many animals have bunkered down for the winter, you can imagine this activity, or simply the presence of these sentient beings under the snow cover. There is something communal in this.
- Birds are still everywhere. Just listen for them. Even in the coldest of days, you can hear them, and see them flitting around. It’s a marvel how they survive; I read once that the colder it gets, the more they stay active, just to keep from freezing to death.
- Solitude. When there’s nothing stirring except the blowing snow and the trees bending to its breaking points, you can just be in that sublime moment, feeling both awe and smallness, contemplating life’s hard edges.
My all-time favorite passage about winter comes not from Jack London’s How to Build a Fire short story (that’s more haunting than awe-inspiring), but instead from Farley Mowatt’s White Fang (or was it Never Cry Wolf?). Mowatt describes what it’s like at minus-fifty degrees Fahrenheit. It is so cold that the air can’t hold moisture. Things are dead still, but the acuity, literally the ability to see things clearly, goes to the limits of our sight. Think super, super high definition. Oh, to see this just once!
