A Wintery Twilight
Hey you,
As a northern transplant into a warmer clime I’m a little bit of an oddity in my approach to winter. Everyone else rejoices when the temperature hits 65 in December and I’m over here obstinately glad when the temperature hits 28 and I get to go for an evening walk in the chill hush. I hum happily as I gather my rose-pink corduroy pants, fuzzy sweater, thick socks, boots, and grey jacket. Sometimes I get my moose leather gloves purchased from Norway on a trip there a few years back, and stuff my hands in — they remind me of the little man who sold them in Bergen. He didn’t speak much English but he managed to tell me that even if I went swimming, these gloves would keep my hands dry. His pantomime of swimming was darling.
Winter brings a sense of joy to me that no other season can quite match. Sure, I go around being cold more than any other time of year, but there are worse things than being cold, such as for instance, being hot. It’s not about the temperature though, as much as this gets the focus of our attention. It’s not. The true glory of winter lies elsewhere.
Every morning around 7:06 I put on the tea kettle to heat water for my coffee. This morning I walked into my little butler’s nook on the right to grind the coffee and there, framed by the window, was a silvery moon. As I stood still in the beauty of it all, a single bird flew across the moon and out of frame. The west was lit a delicate pink in anticipation of the sun, and frost stood every branch and grass blade at white attention.
Yesterday was a quiet day. We had some friends get married this weekend, and out-of-town people were around for church. We gathered a small group and put together a last minute lunch of taco salad, apple cider, crisp, and ice cream. The house was not presentable but I presented it anyway. Sometimes I love inviting people over to a shining house with a curated meal, but there’s a different kind of happiness in johnny-on-the-spot meals. We had fun. Most of the lunch group knew each other very well or are connected through people whom we know well, and it was just the sort of comfortable meal in which you can talk about things that matter much or little. There’s no particular need to keep conversation going, though it didn’t lapse much for all that. The babies were pleasant little cherubs and entertained us betwixt talk. We ended on earl grey tea, and then when everyone left to go home, I tidied the house because messy houses are the worst on a Monday morning. I had just enough time before a Christmassy game evening with friends to take a walk, so I gathered the aforementioned articles of clothing and my headphones, and set out on a short walk.
My challenge for this Christmas season has been re-enchantment. Wonder is a core component to who I am as a person and it has been missing for me with the recent difficulties of the autumn. The little mundanities of life which usually bring me pleasure didn’t seem to touch me. I hate being jaded, but I couldn’t seem to reignite joy. The closest I have come is in the lights and music of the season. My Christmas tree has been lit since December 4, and the twinkly lights and morning sun coming through the dried orange slices on the tree has heartened me considerably.
I stepped outside the door and the outline of pine trees across the street made my spirits perk up a little, and the puddles leftover from the recent rains reflected a calm sky. The sun had almost entirely set and what was left was gloaming. I started to play “Only the beginning of the Adventure” by Harry Gregson-Williams. It’s part of the Chronicles of Narnia soundtrack and always makes me feel a little more joyful.
I made the turn on Hallendar Street. The house on the right-hand corner I feel sure houses kindred spirits, for they have a lamppost outside their house which has a flickering flame at all hours. More Narnia. Down the street is a house which looks like a small English cottage. Cars are lined up in their drive. A Christmas party, how delicious.
The twilight has softened into the most imperceptible of pinks and silver. The trees are bare and the whole experience feels like an intimate conversation between estranged lovers, reunited. I’m lost in a world of music and December twilights, a prelude to a lovely evening spent with friends over card games, eggnog, popcorn, more music, and ending with tea by the light of the Christmas tree.
The whole weekend, coming as it did on the heels of a ghastly few weeks, feels like soothing balm poured all over my spirit. Everything from a stunning wedding, to conversations with friends and their kindnesses to acknowledge my difficulties, to being privileged to witness pure happiness in the new couple. Somehow it all conspires to show me that in the middle of rainstorms and hard frosts, happiness will grow.
This time of my life is winter. My landscape is bleak and bare, and there’s not much to see. Most of me stays hidden right now. I am weary. Walks like the other night aren’t particularly special to anyone else, but to me there’s a little seedling of hope buried in this darker time. I am glad to know that beauty is present and that perhaps, there is also magic in wintertime and it will not be “always winter and never Christmas.”
I get this sense that I need to be careful not to rush this time too much. Something tells me that when I look back to this time, even just a few months from now, that I will be overwhelmed by goodness. That this time which has been saturated with winter rains both from the sky and my eyes, will be redeemed.
Never underestimate the power of a winter’s twilight walk, or twinkly lights.
Dear Lord, please let us get one good snowstorm.
Amen.
L. Raine
