On ice
Sunday, January 08, 2023
There is no doubt that spring is my season. Those days in May when the light changes and stretches into the evening, when everything is suddenly green and it’s possible to go outside without a coat, those are the days in which I come into my own. The air is suffused with possibility – I feel change at the tips of my fingers, and a sort of warm excitement about whatever might be coming next.
Autumn is difficult. Bar a few golden and leaf-strewn days, darkening skies give me a sense of foreboding, despite having lived through nearly 30 years of them. I’d like to embrace the hygge lifestyle and lean into its cosiness, but cinnamon buns and a chunky-knit blanket are not enough to keep the darkness at bay. I often feel trapped indoors and shrink inwards, looking for escape in books or work; anything to avoid the sneaking tendrils of fear.
I’m fully aware that to cope with wintry weather one should go out into it, rather than constantly retreat indoors. I obediently walk every day and try not to get too depressed by the unrelenting sight of bare branches and cloudy skies. As such, an extremely cold snap makes things considerably more interesting. On a walk not long ago, the winter sun blazed down on the frosty ground with blinding clarity and literally threw light on the frozen landscape. Under a layer of frost the place was transformed, and I looked around my well-worn path with fresh eyes.
Despite the glaring sunlight, the undergrowth remained sparkly white. Each leaf was covered in a cape of ice – each point of moisture perfectly frozen. The results were dazzling, the frost providing the perfect opportunity to investigate the extraordinary structure of the natural world, even on the merest blade of grass. Under ice, the insides of leaves were brought without, displaying their complexity in all its beauty. It made me wonder why I’d never looked closely enough before.
To wander through a frosted landscape is to look at a world frozen in time – as though the White Witch has cast her spell and kept spring forever at bay. We tend to see frost as a blight, as something that ruins crops or flowers and prevents future growth. However, appearances can be deceiving. Although many plants are dormant over winter, they are by no means inactive; beneath the surface, nature is at work. Far from being set back by the cold, these plants undergo a process known as vernalisation that allows them to store up energy for new growth come the spring. This vital process ensures that they flower at the right time, and have the best chance of success.
I have had to make some difficult decisions recently. The course of my life needs to take a different turn, to ensure the path ahead is a better one. As a result, some plans and dreams need to be put on ice. What I need is time, and the only way to get it is to pare back the elements of my life and give myself space to reflect. I need to work on what needs fixing, and accept a hibernation of my own. It is time to look inwards, and redirect my energy towards the world beneath the surface.
It’s easy to imagine such introversion as something still and deep and quiet, as rhythmic and reliable as an old denuded apple tree waiting patiently to blossom. Unfortunately, that’s not how it works. I’ve been here before. To make real change, you have to dig down to your roots and prod in all the places it hurts. You have to prod hard, until every place of prodding throbs at once. Then you have to analyse the pain. You have to ask questions and challenge the beliefs you always accepted as fact. You have to write it all down, then reread it. You have to put yourself in uncomfortable situations, every day, on purpose. You have to grapple with the guilt of not doing those things on the days you forget, or simply can’t bear to try, because time is ticking and how long can you afford to do this? You have to wade through days of quiet, with the world rumbling on around you, feeling strangely absent – existing as you do in your very specific bubble of effort. You do all this without truly knowing if it will work. You simply have to keep your head down, work hard and hope. It is not so much a slowing down as a leap of faith.
Winters can be bleak. I do not know how long this one will last. Nonetheless, I hope this quiet blanket of frost will bring to the fore patterns and intricacies that I have previously overlooked. I want to use the time to examine the details that I’ve missed, and marvel at the other things I find. The cold and dark make me fearful, but I have to believe that this absence of heat and light is not just inevitable, but necessary for growth. All I can do is hold tight.
Soon, I hope to see daffodils.
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