To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven.
--Ecclesiastes III, i
Christmastide is over, up on the hill. The headlong holiday rush starts with Thanksgiving, picks up speed all through December, and finally sputters out sometime in mid-January when the garland and wreaths come down, the Christmas tree is stripped bare, and the big red lanterns that welcomed guests are taken off their sentry posts along the gate and relegated to their dark cellar shelf for another eleven months.
This year, after weeks of bitter weather, we were blessed with a balmy
Saturday afternoon custom-made for de-decorating the outside of the house. Once those exterior decorations were down, the spell was broken, the holidays over. Down came the tree, the snowman cookie jar, the mistletoe. The crèches were carefully packed up, the dog’s jingle-bell collar tucked away, and the poinsettia chucked onto the compost pile. By Sunday night, the house was a leaner, and cleaner, version of itself. Now, if we could just work that same deductive magic with the weight we put on over the past month.
January’s fierce cold and snow has turned us into semi-hibernators—we come home from work in the gathering gloom, throw together dinner, grab the nearest pair of fleece pants, and grudgingly settle in for our long winter’s nap. Saturday’s reappearance of the sun improved our outlook somewhat—it always amazes me how restorative those sunbeams can be—but no matter how kind the weather patterns be, we’re in for more clouds than sun over these next months, and the idea of it is a little draining.
D is faithful in his campaign against the deer—he sprays his foul-smelling repellent on our trees and shrubs every week, all year long. And I make periodic trips to the compost pile and bird feeders. But neither we nor the dog spend any real time outside now. We hustle from house to garage to work, reversing the dance steps nine hours later. The dog does her thing outside with record-breaking speed, a model of efficiency. Even at the weekend, we busy ourselves with interior chores. My desire to have my hands in the soil is still strong, but my desire to be warm and dry is stronger. So, between the rich excesses of the holiday meals and our decreased activity level, it is no wonder that we three, like a cave full of brown bears, have added a layer of fat to get us through the winter.
Most winters, we have a trip to some sunny destination to pull us through the short days and long dark nights of January. This year, though, we’ve opted to forego the travel and concentrate on getting some work down to the house. Knowing we won’t have to don swimming trunks and parade half-naked in front of strangers poolside adds to the lack of motivation to exercise away those sugar plums and gingerbread.
So, here is my resolution for 2010, three weeks late, but my resolution nonetheless: I resolve to take the winter for what it is—a cold, housebound stretch of days—and let my body react as it will. No more self-recriminations for not awaking at dawn for a five-mile run through the dark and frigid streets. No self-loathing for the reminiscences of countless Christmas cookies enjoyed. Instead, I’ll patiently await the time of the year that sees us more active and out-of-doors lugging, digging, hauling, bending, sprinting, sweating. I resolve to accept that there is a purpose for this time of year, that this season imparts its own set of blessings—more cloistered and sedentary than other seasons, but important nonetheless for their regenerative powers.
And in resolving to accept them, I can enjoy these next months more, knowing that the time to plant and laugh and dance lies ahead.
--Ecclesiastes III, i
Christmastide is over, up on the hill. The headlong holiday rush starts with Thanksgiving, picks up speed all through December, and finally sputters out sometime in mid-January when the garland and wreaths come down, the Christmas tree is stripped bare, and the big red lanterns that welcomed guests are taken off their sentry posts along the gate and relegated to their dark cellar shelf for another eleven months.
This year, after weeks of bitter weather, we were blessed with a balmy
Saturday afternoon custom-made for de-decorating the outside of the house. Once those exterior decorations were down, the spell was broken, the holidays over. Down came the tree, the snowman cookie jar, the mistletoe. The crèches were carefully packed up, the dog’s jingle-bell collar tucked away, and the poinsettia chucked onto the compost pile. By Sunday night, the house was a leaner, and cleaner, version of itself. Now, if we could just work that same deductive magic with the weight we put on over the past month.January’s fierce cold and snow has turned us into semi-hibernators—we come home from work in the gathering gloom, throw together dinner, grab the nearest pair of fleece pants, and grudgingly settle in for our long winter’s nap. Saturday’s reappearance of the sun improved our outlook somewhat—it always amazes me how restorative those sunbeams can be—but no matter how kind the weather patterns be, we’re in for more clouds than sun over these next months, and the idea of it is a little draining.
D is faithful in his campaign against the deer—he sprays his foul-smelling repellent on our trees and shrubs every week, all year long. And I make periodic trips to the compost pile and bird feeders. But neither we nor the dog spend any real time outside now. We hustle from house to garage to work, reversing the dance steps nine hours later. The dog does her thing outside with record-breaking speed, a model of efficiency. Even at the weekend, we busy ourselves with interior chores. My desire to have my hands in the soil is still strong, but my desire to be warm and dry is stronger. So, between the rich excesses of the holiday meals and our decreased activity level, it is no wonder that we three, like a cave full of brown bears, have added a layer of fat to get us through the winter.
Most winters, we have a trip to some sunny destination to pull us through the short days and long dark nights of January. This year, though, we’ve opted to forego the travel and concentrate on getting some work down to the house. Knowing we won’t have to don swimming trunks and parade half-naked in front of strangers poolside adds to the lack of motivation to exercise away those sugar plums and gingerbread.
So, here is my resolution for 2010, three weeks late, but my resolution nonetheless: I resolve to take the winter for what it is—a cold, housebound stretch of days—and let my body react as it will. No more self-recriminations for not awaking at dawn for a five-mile run through the dark and frigid streets. No self-loathing for the reminiscences of countless Christmas cookies enjoyed. Instead, I’ll patiently await the time of the year that sees us more active and out-of-doors lugging, digging, hauling, bending, sprinting, sweating. I resolve to accept that there is a purpose for this time of year, that this season imparts its own set of blessings—more cloistered and sedentary than other seasons, but important nonetheless for their regenerative powers.
And in resolving to accept them, I can enjoy these next months more, knowing that the time to plant and laugh and dance lies ahead.
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