Every winter my good intentions and plans for things I will do seem to disintegrate at the beginning of December. I turn off my alarm in the morning and sleep longer. Goals I thought I could meet get revised. About the end of February, though, I begin to re-energize. I’ve blamed this pattern on holiday-related exhaustion or winter colds, but in the book Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times, author Katherine May has opened my eyes to the fact that in winter, we are supposed to rest more. We are supposed to retreat. There need be no blame. There need be no apology.
I’m writing this during a ten-day polar vortex with an outside temperature the last few mornings in the vicinity of minus 20 degrees. (Please don’t skip over that “minus.”) Importantly, though, May opens up her definition of winter to more than the months of December through March, extending the definition to cover any season of difficulty. The middle of July may be a January for you, dear reader. And of course, this year of Covid has been one long winter.
There are many sections in the book that I’m tempted to copy out for you here, but I’ll choose just one. It’s a section of hope. Hope as delivered by a robin.
“Other birds call in the winter, too, but these are often defensive notes, aimed at warding off predators. Robins, however, engage in full, complex song during the coldest months, when it’s far too early to consider breeding. One ornithologist found that robins will sing as soon as the days begin to get longer, provided they have energy to spare. A well-fed robin—one who has laid on sufficient fat to survive the lean winter months and has found a reliable source of nutrition to top up his reserves—will sing well in advance of the time that he expects females to act on his display. In evolutionary biology, this is known as costly signalling, a gesture that advertises superior strength and vitality, yet by its very nature is potentially dangerous to the creature. A robin sings in winter because he can, and he wants the world—or at least the female robins—to know it. But he is also in practice for happier times.”
Costly signalling. Practicing.
I could have copied out any of the many beautiful sections I underlined in my copy of the book, any of the many deeply encouraging passages, any of the many kind and wise sentences and paragraphs that assure readers that winter is cyclical, that winters pass, that we get better at wintering, that we get better at finding its joy and beauty, but I chose this one about the robin, because each of us can listen at a window for a robin to come and start singing. Each of us can practice our song for times with more light.
Tonight the polar air here in Minnesota will begin to go back where it belongs. Tomorrow, when my alarm goes off the temperature will still be in the negative double digits but will rise above zero for the first time in a string of days. I will stand at my back door and listen for a robin’s song.