Winter Light

Cheryl and Wayne joined us for a farm work party in early December.  Cheryl and the farmer dug dahlia bulbs and Cheryl showed the farmer her wreath-making technique.  Wayne and I walked to the neighboring woods to harvest holly for bouquet and wreath accents.  Before this expedition, we were walking around to the back of the house when Wayne broke a brief silence to say: “it’s beautiful here”.  I agreed and we moved on without discussion, but it has turned into one of those few memories that sticks clearly. 

A month later, I remember where we were on the pathway, how Wayne turned to face me, the tone of his voice and the feeling of the moment.  We’ve not discussed it, but I think the quality of the December light had something to do with Wayne’s sudden statement.  This time around the sun (my sixtieth), I’ve been appreciating the winter light.  It is often very clear, especially after the storms when the air has been washed by rain and swept by wind.  Somehow the outside sounds seem clearer also – maybe it’s the relative stillness. 

The other day I was struck by the beauty of the simple bird song coming from the Ocean Spray bush beside the house, a plaintive, delicate, two-note carol.  It was a chickadee (find the song in the lower right-hand corner of this page) – it turns out that the littlest birds really do sing the prettiest songs.  Getting back to the winter light: the sky-watching is good this time of year.  I’ve become a connoisseur of sky views foregrounded by the bare branches of various trees on or near the farm.  Sunrises through alders in the wetland across the road; the moon (or clouds, or the rare patch of blue) through the branches of the garden-side maple; sunsets over Quartermaster Harbor through the cottonwood branches down by the lagoon:  Wayne is right – it is beautiful. 

When I am outside and find myself stuck in some unhappy train of thought, a breath and a look in just about any direction is usually all that is needed to break the spell for at least a good moment.  It’s not just the farm: the moments can be found while cycling alongside Tramp Harbor, working in the Island Center Forest, walking in the Dockton woods. The nights are long, but they have this advantage: I can enjoy a sunset and the following sunrise without having to cut short a full term of sleep. 

Speaking of the crepuscular:  even when there is no color or beam associated with the sun’s coming or going (as is the case on the frequent grey days), just walking through the gradually increasing or decreasing light has a touch of the mystic.  The scenes lack the exuberance of spring or the extravagance of summer.  They are restrained and spare, but satisfyingly beautiful like the chickadee’s song

I understand the sentiments of sadness that the poets associate with winter light, the “seal Despair”, the “desolate … fervourlous … gloom”, etc.  I know some of the sentiments personally.  But winter and winter light are symbols in these poems, not the things in themselves.  Take a walk in the woods or by the water before the days get too much longer and I think you will agree.