remembering winter magic

dispatch 55

Dec 27, 2023

hi friends,

Before I get into it, I’ve decided to give myself January off from new writing and instead re-visit older posts and writing that I shared on past blogs or other formats. I want to give that old writing new life for newer readers in this space, and snag some space to work on a essay for publication.

Writing hasn’t come easy lately, and while my initial bias is to try to push through, historically I have much more luck when I turn to gentleness.

To close out the year, I’ll be donating the income from this newsletter for the month of December to my pals over at Sonder Recovery who do the incredible work of bringing free, peer-support-based recovery resources to queer folks and allies. Important always, but especially during the holiday season. If you’re looking to subscribe for an additional monthly dispatch and access to the archive of past subscriber dispatches, just hit the button below.

“Well, it’s like this,” she said. “There are such a lot of things that have no place in summer and autumn and spring. Everything that’s a little shy and a little rum. Some kinds of night animals and people that don’t fit in with others and that nobody really believes in. They keep out of the way all the year. And then when everything’s quiet and white and the nights are long and most people are asleep – then they appear.”
-Moominland Midwinter
by Andrew Ridley on Unsplash

remembering winter magic

Here we are, on the other side of the Solstice and moving steadily into the long months of winter. Every year, I find that I can muster great joy at the thought of the cold season…in December. Every year I convince myself that this winter will be easy. Then January hits.

The idea of three more months of limited sun and green makes my skin itch. Inevitably, there is a moment in which I throw an inner (or sometimes outer) tantrum. I do not want to wear multiple pairs of pants at once. I hate our climbing electric bill, how every in-season vegetable requires the slow labor of peeling and roasting, how salt builds up on the sidewalks, and the ground cover of dead leaves develops a frozen upper layer that cracks with every footfall. I tell myself that I hate the gray and the dark.

Sometimes, all you need to break through a feeling is to give it space to be, in all of its messy glory. One tantrum is usually all it takes for me to love winter again, the cold, closeness of it. I become re-enchanted with the way that putting on more clothes means slowing down to give myself that additional attention and care. I become re-enchanted with this season of welcoming in the darker, more hidden parts of myself; with the sight of my liquid breath in the air.

The Latin root of the word delight is delectare, which means “to charm.” In winter especially, we must learn to charm ourselves. To remember that in the gloom we must make our own light, seek the thrill of a bundled-up walk across snow and ice. Dedicate a prayer of gratitude for warm winter boots and hats that cover ears.

Inside too, you can make winter magic. As I write this, there is a small and perfect fir tree sitting in my living room. This year, as in every year before, I will be slow to take it down. It is adorned with a large gold star, a string of buttons, and a collection of ornaments both new and old. It is light and nature and nostalgia in one.

I strung the buttons myself after finding them, surprise stowaways, in a thrifted sewing basket. I have always loved buttons, and that my first action of the winter season involved threading hundreds of mismatched buttons together feels right to me. It feels meaningful and pointless, special in the right kinds of ways. It cultivates the patience that I will need for this season which is always a little longer than I remember.

This year, as hundreds of shiny marketing emails hit my inbox each day, I was threading hundreds of shiny buttons onto a red thread. I was choosing them one by one for their shape and their shine, like I did when I was small and buttons seemed like the only currency that mattered.

Our star too is thrifted. We found the large tin star covered in an Americana flag motif and decided it was worthy of rescue. After an ill-fated attempt at spray paint, which mostly resulted in my proud ownership of temporary glitter jeans, we found that with just 7-10 coats of acrylic paint can make something gold stay. I smile every single time I look at it, too big for its small perch.

These are silly things, small things, but they become big things without the shine of summer to overpower them. My partner learns to hold crochet needles in their hands and I thread a small hand loom. The dining room becomes a space for craft and remains that way all through the winter. It is cluttered with pictures and brushes drying, preliminary sketches, and the clipped ends of threads and yarn. We weave magic here in this blue room. We do not eat here and yet we are fed.

I have an endless list of what I want to bake and my only Friday night plans involve making pomanders, piercing cloves into orange skin. I want to knead dough and make the most decadent hot chocolate. I want to marvel at the contents of my CSA box, these strange creatures that grow underground to feed us beyond the frost. I think I have the space to love winter now because I first resist it so hard. It is a part of the cycle, a regular practice in surrender, an invitation to make and seek my own delights. I like who I am in winter, who I let myself become.

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