Through the hawthorn blows the cold wind
& a hungry land
The cold dips below zero. Do I really love winter or have I forgotten what it is to live in the elements, not just around, a dip of the toe as it suits me?
My stomach can’t recall what true hunger is when the stores from last season’s harvest run low. The bonfire prayers chanted to the sun have lost their desperation. The wolves that circled closer and closer, swimming in hunger too, are gone. Rafters don’t whistle with winter’s winds. Snow no longer holds us hostage for weeks on end. Even the most piercing nights are numbed by electricity and convenience.
Maybe I just like the romance that covers the beast like a veil. The hot chocolate, endless supply of candles, warm blankets and fresh apples are an effective smoke screen. Surely our ancestors wouldn’t have named Marzanna, a death goddess, to a season of fluffy slippers and cozy robes.
My only reminder is that first step out of the house as the true face of the season rears up to meet me. It’s a shock, a warning nip at the nose, chin and cheeks that the same winter people once feared (and many still do) is lying just below the surface.
Even if winter wasn’t embraced in our new trendy seasonal ways, it was a time of intrigue. Stories of the things that lie in the darkness were whispered only in the presence of candlelight. Fortunetelling was a skill heightened by this closeness to the dark. Every bite of food was cherished and rationed for human and animal alike.
True, I will take this cozy version of winter any day. But I will gather firewood and walk a mile on the frozen soil just to remind myself that we do not live in a passive landscape. It is still hunting, waiting for the door to be cracked open.
Much love,
Val
P.S. Feel free to share, it’s much appreciated!
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