A letter to Winter

a poetic reflection on seasonal depression

Has 

it 

been 

a 

few 

weeks 

or 

a 

few 

months 

since the days have grown so 

short?

Daylight only lingers long enough for darkness to swallow it whole. Gone with daylight glow, darkness has swallowed me too. The bitter winds of winter’s wrath guard the front door imprisoning me within my own home. The sun slanting through the small kitchen window barely lights the pine cupboards a few minutes past when I close my laptop at the end of each workday. 

Passing time ticks as slow as the second hand on the most thunderous grandfather clock. Tick. Tick. Tick. I feel each second like I feel each fiber of soft carpet warming my icy toes. Passing time sounds like a soundtrack of staircase moans and groans, the resounding crunch of over-toasted bread echoing between my cheeks louder than my consciousness, a soft purr that signals breakfast, lunch, and supper. 

In the corner of my eye, the arches of my cat’s backs and the tips of their ears paint static silhouettes against window frames. We all sit, stiff. Unmoving. Their paws kneading cotton blankets. My hands tapping keyboard tiles. 

I haven’t left the house. Outside, the greyscape forces in. The winter vacuum sucks the last remains of life from the forests and fields. It is the decline of daylight. The decay of deciduous leaves. Gone are lapping leaves and the lingering of chirping chickadees. Gone is the soft glow of fireflies and balmy evenings with crystalline skies. Even the wind gets darker - slicing like a knife that no longer stops to play in canopies full of life. 

All that is alive and all that is dead creaks and groans. 

My bones. 

In my bones, winter takes up residence. My motivation dwindles like the last grains of sand slipping through the narrowing of an hourglass. Depression settles in like December’s first snow. Quiet but heavy. Foreboding as the grim reaper. The pitter-patter before the burial.

Has 

it 

been 

a 

few 

days 

or 

a 

few 

weeks 

since I didn’t fall asleep mid-day? 

…since I didn’t pull heavy sand-colored linens over my groggy eyes to muffle my morning alarm? 

In the cold months, I snooze my alarm until my responsibilities drag my feet out from under warm sheets onto chilly floors, hiding from the fingerlings of golden light as it creeps under the shades, groggy and dazed. Winter has stolen the girl in me that rises before 6 a.m. with the softening indigos of dawn before the first flutters of the mourning dove. I want her back. 

On the good days, winter has its own kind of beauty. Bare limbs expose summer’s mysteries, acres of oaks and mountains around for centuries. Chimneys bellowing with smoke and warmly lit windows tucked deep in the trees. The winter air brushes clearer skies; only my warm breath blurs the luminance of a blush sunrise. The earth’s color palette grows cooler - electric blues turn icy and the sunset sky lavender, crimson reds contour the horizon before the sun slips away and cardinals radiate against the sky so feathery gray. Though I watch the colors change more behind glass panes than beyond the front porch. My rosy nose and ashen cheeks long to be swaddled by the heat of burning logs and the fragrance of pine tree; my numb lips and frozen fingers for a cup of peppermint tea. 

My body has seasons too I’ve learned. My colorscape, bright yellows and violets, run into more solemn tones. Each year, the first few weeks of the winter months strike hard. The days blur like snow-covered yards. 

Has 

it 

been 

a day 

a week 

a month

since the last time I recognized myself in the mirror? 

But the past few days I have risen before the sun. The morning wind stings my face a little less and my depression has grown undone. My energy has risen to a simmer, my body less achy, a little more limber. The groan of the stairs has faded to a peaceful hum. Though my sleepiness endures and my lack of motivation still drums. My fingers tap and the cat’s paws knead. Their soft purrs are white noise on every eve. 

The days have felt as long as a wolf’s howl. As darkness swallowed me whole and the emptiness within me grew two sizes too big, I understood that I depend on the sun and the sky to create light and warmth in my inner world. It’s no wonder that my insides feel as blustery as a midnight in December. When the sun no longer shines, neither do I. So while the frosty ground absorbs the last of the sun’s rays I hope to create warmth in other ways. The softer moments of the past few weeks reminded me that a source of warmth and aliveness is present and unwavering all year round. That source of warmth is togetherness. The warm eyes of a stranger that hold yours long enough to allow a shared connection in a fleeting encounter. A hug so tight that two bodies coalesce if even for a moment. The touch of a loved one that feels charged with understanding and reverence. Togetherness is the filament for warmth we create when we serve and share communion with one another. 

So while my fire may taper to a steady ember as the seasons change, two steady embers are enough to spark a flame. Enough to keep both warm all year with a steady love, stunningly untamed.

---

Big hugs to

Steven Foster

,

Pivot to the Podium

,

Charlie Bleecker

and

Tommy Dixon

for their help getting this piece out there. Thanks for hanging in with me in my publishing lull over the past two weeks.

If this piece resonates, please consider sharing it with a friend - it is greatly appreciated. Have such a wonderful weekend.

With love,

Haley