Morning rituals, winter walks
When I have something I must write, the idea stays with me, like a visiting cardinal in my periphery of vision; its bright cranberry feathers catch my attention, and I see it resting briefly on my fence. Its eyes pierce me - we seem to see each other - then it flies away. The idea seems to return, again and again, in what I read, see, and hear.
Right now, it’s my winter morning walks and my two companions that join me - my loyal golden retriever and Katherine May’s delicious memoir, Wintering.
For a bit of context, since winter officially began in late December, I decided to try out a new ritual - morning walks. I walk every morning - rain or shine, preferably in the early dawn hours which in Georgia means around 7:30-8 am. I’ve been fondly thinking of them as my winter walks, a desperate attempt for me to absorb as much vitamin D and to feel more present during these sacred, winter mornings.
After bundling up, and pulling on my winter coat, beanie, and favorite black REI gloves, I’m out the door. My sweet golden dog looks up at me excitedly, and I loop the leash around her neck. With the “clink” of the shuttered fence gate behind me, we’re off. I feel a release, an expansion, and a sense of possibility. I’m enveloped in a crisp chill of air that feels as if it too just woke up: rested and light, without any weight of expectations. I see my breath in a misty, white haze. My only job for the next 30 minutes or so will be to walk and to be alone with the gentle, rhythmic movement of my body taking one step after the other. What a gift.
Most mornings I look at the sky and wish I could take a mental photo in my mind so I will never forget the alternating layers of watercolor blues, grays, and whites. The sunlight sleepily rises over the hill, with the first glimmers of its yellow glow only visible at the very top of the pine trees in the distance. The deep slant of the sun allows my shadow to walk beside me. When I don’t think anyone is watching, I pause and face the sun, closing my eyes - hoping to soak in all the light that cascades across the road ahead of me.
I feel as though I am the only soul awake, and I savor it because soon I will see another walker, or see a car ahead of me, likely commuting to work. For now, the streets are deserted. I imagine people inside their homes slowly waking up, shuffling to their coffee makers. Preparing for work. I see steam in billowy clouds coming from rooftop furnace vents and smell the fresh laundry scent. The dryer must be on. But I am outside in the cold, alone with my dog, savoring every step before I will be at my desk for much of the daylight hours.
I keep turning over a paradox in my head. There’s something dark yet mysteriously light - and even soft - about the winter. The trees stand tall and stark almost black against the early morning, winter sky. They’re all bones and bare to the world. Austere. Even the birds, perfectly sequenced in an arrowhead, flying in the sky, appear as black silhouettes. Only the evergreen shrubs and pines contain a bit of green life against our landscapes. And how can I forget the delightful cherry pop of color in the holly shrubs?
I think of the trees and plants embodying the true gift of rest that winter offers. There is no expectation for them to provide us with tremendous shade or to grow more limbs. No new resolutions to do this or accomplish that. They may just be in this season, digging their roots in the frozen ground. Standing tall. Surrendering to the limits of winter, there is an ease and lightness here. Accepting, resting, waiting, listening for the changes in light, and lengthening of days that will soon come.
For the rest of the month, I am retreating from the busyness and resting more. Katherine May explains it as calling back the “quiet pleasures” of your life that you simply neglect amid rushing around all the time. Activities that spark light, enchantment, and a “light concentration so you can dream.”
These daily rhythmic, centering walks have opened me creatively again. I hesitate as I write this because I’ve loved to go walking for as long as I remember. So what makes these winter walks different? Maybe it’s just this sacred time I am protecting for me, maybe it’s the meditative prayer that seems to manifest from the physical act of walking, maybe how my attention seems to delight in the small details - the bright red cardinal dashing by, the few remaining, trembling leaves on the branches, the frost shimmering in the sun. But mainly, I think I’ve just finally embraced how much I truly love winter.