Okay, let's just get this out of the way now: I hate winter. I absolutely cannot stand it. I've lived in New York all of my life, with a brief stint in Massachusetts for college, so you'd think I would be used to it by now. Instead, I find I dislike it more every year. I hate the snow; it looks beautiful for about three minutes and after that is just filthy and in your way. I hate the static, the dry skin that burns in a different spot with every movement, the chapped and bleeding lips, the itchy sweaters and constricted movement. But most of all, I hate the cold. I hate how it causes me to curl into myself, hunching forward, all of the muscles on my back tensed. It's deeply uncomfortable and exhausting. I seem to be far more sensitive to lower temperatures than the average person: when other people are comfortable, my teeth are chattering, but when other people are boiling to death, I am quite at peace. This sensitivity seems to get more and more pronounced as I age. I'm not sure why this is, but I remember at age 13 or so, I suited up, went outside, and crawled around the backyard for three hours pretending I was a polar bar struggling for survival on the frigid tundra. I seem to have managed pretty well just then, but maybe that was because, back then, I didn't have "grown-up worries" like shoveling, inclement weather driving, or using personal days in order to stay home from work to be concerned about.
Against all odds, however, recently I have managed to find a redeeming value in winter: the stillness. Oh, what a beautiful thing it is. Everything is muffled after a snowfall. Flora and many fauna are sleeping, tuned in to the earth's gentle cycles.
I began cottoning on to this peaceful and delightful aspect of winter a few years ago, a bit before Christmas. I was housesitting for my mom while the rest of my family was away vacationing. I stood at the kitchen sink, washing a few dishes, and admired the merry crowd of birds that had gathered on the other side of the driveway in the snow to feast on the just-filled contents of the four bird feeders. It was such a joy to watch them as I worked, and I thought to myself how wonderful it would be to have a house somewhere in the woods of New England, to live alone, and walk amid the snowy trees, feeling present and alive. And so my second novel was born.
I receive various e-mails and publications regarding yoga, meditation, or, more broadly, living an examined and mindful life. I have noticed, in various places now, articles about the stillness of winter, and what lifestyle changes such a quiet, introspective season is guiding us towards. I have sought to incorporate these changes into my own lifestyle. One day, I meditated during daylight for the first time in quite a long while; I opened the blinds on my window to have a good view of the bare branches outside, and let the sun shine warmly on my face. That was a very special meditation. I redoubled my efforts to practice yoga more often, as my commitment to it had been flagging as of late. It is mostly passive, restorative yoga that I practice now. And, twice, I have utilized new mental imagery during my meditations, to bring my body and mind into balance with the season.
I sit on my pillow as usual, and then imagine a pond. This pond has frozen over; it is surrounded by freshly fallen snow and tall, shadowed conifers, the entire scene sparkling beneath a full moon. I think about how silent everything in this scene is, and feel to a very deep part of my being the stillness of the slumbering earth. I imagine I am at the bottom of that pond (my gently burbling steam vaporizer helps with this), seated in the sand, feeling the minute currents that barely stir my hair. The fish and other aquatic creatures nearby are all resting quietly along with me. There is almost no sound to be heard; we, like a bear in her den, are all quiet in body and mind, conserving our energy, awaiting the awakening of spring.
These two mental visions -- of the pond from the surface and then of my vantage point in its depths -- are all deeply relaxing. It becomes something I can sense and actually feel instead of something I ponder with logic. This meditation helps me to discover, for myself, what is so special about winter. Perhaps, with practice, I will come to tolerate or even embrace it, despite the problems it presents.
Namaste.
I receive various e-mails and publications regarding yoga, meditation, or, more broadly, living an examined and mindful life. I have noticed, in various places now, articles about the stillness of winter, and what lifestyle changes such a quiet, introspective season is guiding us towards. I have sought to incorporate these changes into my own lifestyle. One day, I meditated during daylight for the first time in quite a long while; I opened the blinds on my window to have a good view of the bare branches outside, and let the sun shine warmly on my face. That was a very special meditation. I redoubled my efforts to practice yoga more often, as my commitment to it had been flagging as of late. It is mostly passive, restorative yoga that I practice now. And, twice, I have utilized new mental imagery during my meditations, to bring my body and mind into balance with the season.
I sit on my pillow as usual, and then imagine a pond. This pond has frozen over; it is surrounded by freshly fallen snow and tall, shadowed conifers, the entire scene sparkling beneath a full moon. I think about how silent everything in this scene is, and feel to a very deep part of my being the stillness of the slumbering earth. I imagine I am at the bottom of that pond (my gently burbling steam vaporizer helps with this), seated in the sand, feeling the minute currents that barely stir my hair. The fish and other aquatic creatures nearby are all resting quietly along with me. There is almost no sound to be heard; we, like a bear in her den, are all quiet in body and mind, conserving our energy, awaiting the awakening of spring.
These two mental visions -- of the pond from the surface and then of my vantage point in its depths -- are all deeply relaxing. It becomes something I can sense and actually feel instead of something I ponder with logic. This meditation helps me to discover, for myself, what is so special about winter. Perhaps, with practice, I will come to tolerate or even embrace it, despite the problems it presents.
Namaste.
