Drunk on Winter
In the studio, we are binging on winter.
Every week I assign snow-themed improvisations while we discuss the weather. We trade opinions about our favorite winter sports (I love snowshoeing, and we all think curling is just strange) and winter-supported activities (“drinking chai lattes” was mentioned last week.). Seasons, after all, are a form of practice and a chance to look at rituals and routines. “We must pay attention to the season that surrounds us and we must live the season as much as possible,” said writer and mystic Robert Benson.
Today: cold and sunny. I am wearing a sweater and a cardigan, wool socks and fleece-lined slippers. At my elbow is a cup of cinnamon tea.
The whole country has been focused on the weather lately, as the recent winter storm socked in much of the nation. “I have BIG news!” a young student living temporarily in D.C. told me last week. “We are going to get TWO FEET of snow on Sunday and might not have school for an entire week!”
Sounds like heaven to me, kid. We are only one month into this year and I’m already in need of a break. Or equally, I could use a steady routine, a deepening of the practices and rituals that make up my best self and my most grounded hours. Not being able to bike or walk to the Zen center in the dark early morning hours of the last month means that my Zazen practice has fallen off dramatically. A combination of car trouble and cold temperatures has forced me to adjust my lap swimming schedule. There has been too much sugar in the house, left-over from the holiday teas and dinner parties. My regular desk time of writing and administration work has been full of interruptions. I miss my quiet mornings with a cup of coffee and a book. I’m not even sure how all these practices got knocked sideways; it’s been this and that. A couple of bad migraines. A handful of extra appointments. Nothing that interesting or significant. Life happens, as they say.
My best friend Lora is moving to New Zealand, a fact that is both interesting and significant. She is in the process of selling, donating, tossing or shredding nearly everything she owns, an act I watch with both envy and amazement. To be able to walk away and start over. To travel lightly through life unencumbered by our stuff. I like to imagine myself as a simple person with minimal needs, but I have spent my entire adult life amassing this collection of books, art, plants and other curiosities. I have—quite literally!—ten thousand stars for starters. I wrestle with conflicting intentions. Meanwhile, I buy another book. Cram in another potted succulent on an already crowded shelf. Hang up another star in the kitchen window.
The world is full of intentions in these heady early days of a new year. After the last few difficult years, when “survival” seemed the only intention we could manage, once again there is a renewed focused on self-improvement and growth. I hear about resolutions to move more, or eat more veggies. Friends talk about Dry January, or at least a slightly damp one. And of course, Lora is shredding and tossing wildly, taking the art of decluttering to a whole new level. It was inspiring, all this determined agency and energetic direction. That was until the events of the last few weeks flipped us upside down and rattled the ground under our feet. It is hard to thrive when mere survival seems in question.
Each January, my house concert series Movable Sol produces what we call the “Winter Playlist Concert." This is a program that consists of an uninterrupted hour of music, intended for providing a held space of reflection and meditation without comment or chatter. Last weekend, in the midst of the dire weather predictions, Joel (my favorite cellist and MovSol partner) and I presented the program to three full audiences crammed in my candle-lit living room. “I have never needed this more,” said several attendees on Saturday, after witnessing the horrifying scenes coming out of Minneapolis.
Sometimes, making music in the face of tragedy feels like a cop-out. There have to be more meaningful responses to the brokenness of the world. And yet, this is what I can do. I can offer music and practice and gentle reminders of the season and the longer view of our lives. It will never feel like enough, but it’s a specific and tangible something. We all have to light our tiny candles in the overwhelming darkness.
“We will need something to come back to after all this madness is over. We will still need beauty in our lives,” said one wise person as we were sharing a glass of wine after one of the performances. I hang onto that: We will need beauty to come back to when all of this is over.
In Wishful Thinking Frederick Buechner writes, “Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don't be afraid.”
Snowflakes. Icicles. Chai lattes. Cinnamon tea. Quilts on the bed. Fleece-lined slippers. Poetry and silence. Fireplaces. Wine and chocolate. Scarves and mittens. Curling and snowshoeing. Soup. Rachmaninov and Bach. Candles.
The world is beautiful and broken both. Get drunk on winter, friends. Travel lightly. Shred what no longer serves you. Dig deep into your rituals and routines and practices. Do that precious tangible thing that you can do. Hang a wish on a star. We will need beauty when all of this is over. Don’t be afraid.