Another one of those dim and chill end-of-December days. What happens to me in winter is what happens to the landscape, things that grow: I go into semi-hibernation; I channel my inner bear. Darkness, sleep, blankets, oatmeal and hot chocolate. Give me those things and I will stumble through the season. And if I must be conscious: music, movies, good books, Prismacolor colored pencils, a sheet of black paper, a compass (the better to make mandalas with).
In a strange and inexplicable way, even the drear and dark of winter has its gifts. The cat wedges herself between my husband and me every night and sleeps like a little furry brick; she is immoveable until 5:00 AM or so, when her wee, ferocious stomach animates her once again, and she begins her efforts to waken us by trying to walk on our heads. Another thing I like about winter is that it lends itself to more contemplative time (for me, anyway). If I’m passing through one of my journaling modes, I always seem to go deeper into the dark stuff. Sometimes this is a little scary, but it’s all part of the adventure . . .
During one of those scary journaling episodes a year or so ago, I happened to be reading Thomas Moore’s Dark Nights of the Soul, a book that brought me to a deeper understanding of the relationship between depression and the soul. More on that later.
Meanwhile, I must give a shout-out for Mark Knopfler, whose newest album, Get Lucky, provided background music while I wrote this post. More on him later.
And I’m off to embrace the drear of the day . . .