Gliding into December
A new month, first time on XC skis, falling in love with place, and Winter Solstice
The woosh of my skis gliding through the snow was a welcomed moment this final week of November when it is rare to feel the ecstasy of the kick and glide that can only happen when the temps are in the mid-20s on waxless classic XC skis.
The snow fell all week beginning on Sunday, and though it is already fading with the return of the warm days, there was a moment where I was reminded of just how important and vital the snow is to life as a gardener and dweller of the north. The way the snow blankets all the mistakes and work left to be done is a gift to those who spend a lot of time working with the soil. Something happens when the ground fully freezes, and the snow piles up. All the imperfections left behind suddenly seem smoothed over and softer to the eye and we feel there is rest finally.
Over the years, I have watched the snow become less common, and the winters feel milder than ever as we bounce from 25-44 degrees weekly throughout winter. These sorts of fluctuations aren’t the temperatures I know of life in the north, even this time of year. I have images from years prior of snow coating our landscape for months that would be up to my waist in the paths I skied this week. So much snow that my backcountry-style Nordic skis are buried beneath the fresh powder, and I have no option but snow shoes to wander the woods. In the last few years, I instead just hope for a few solid weeks a year I can keep my skis moving on the snow daily. This loss has made me an even fiercer protector of our environment.
The joy I feel in the snow was built by memories like the one I shared on Wednesday. Memories of the muted sun behind lake-effect snow clouds that flow across the blue sky in bands. The cold air filling my lungs and freezing the hair in my nose (IYKYK). The crunch of the snow beneath my boots. The way the pines hang heavy from fresh snow and create tunnels into magical Narnia-like worlds as only possible in a northern winter of what feels like the past and far, often not the future.
Many don’t like the cold. I get it. It is challenging. It hurts. It can feel isolating. Driving can feel hard. Everything has an added layer, but as the snow fell this week, I felt an instant relief and comfort. I felt I had finally arrived home—the transition from summer to winter had been completed. Now, I could rest. I am unsure if it is this entire year of transitioning from one chapter of my career to another or something in between, but it felt good to be writing and watching the snow fall again by the fireplace.
Winter, by calendar standards, is just a few weeks away. The shortest days of the year will be upon us in the next 4-6 weeks, but sometime in February, we will note the way the sunlight has shifted in our homes through the bare branches of the trees and made warm shadows later and later each night on our walls as we cook dinner. Winter won’t hold her grip long, just as summer never is long enough. So I think as the snow settled and my skis were placed into the crispy, freshly fallen snow, I knew I had a choice to be present and alive right now in this next chapter of the year or miss something I would long for six months from now. I knew soon enough I would stack my skis back into the garage again, and my boots would be packed away for another year. Soon enough, I would trade them out again for my muck boots to work in the minerally soil rejuvenated by the cold of winter like myself if we both spent these days intentionally.
The warmer the winters are, the less and less time I feel I get with this motion of the skis and workout of the body and mind. The less time I have to wear out the ruts and patterns of the season of darkness and cold that brings us back to the light. That may sound good for some, but I don’t believe it is. I believe our bodies, minds, souls, and the very cells we are made of need deep wintering every year, just as the trees and animals need to hibernate. To long for shorter and milder winters denies us something I truly believe our bodies need and crave. We must shift our patterns throughout the year with how the sun moves and the temperature feels. Our job, in these months, is to find peace and comfort with the darker places in ourselves that can only be seen in this season. We must desire to discover the joys of the playground that the snow offers us, along with the rest it demands.
If these mild winters have given me anything, it is the push to be present in the current season. Knowing they never are long enough or deep enough as they once felt, so I must make the most of them.
So when I feel this fresh snowfall, I don’t look for a way through. I look for a way to be in it fully. To feel the biting on my cheeks. To embrace the discomfort as if it has something to offer me. To use the darkness to hone my intuition better. To wear out the old wool sweater a little more hoping maybe one day it will finally need a patch on the elbow. To watch the snowfall so I can meditate on what gifts are already right here. To be mesmerized by the movement of the sun in the sky and the moon at night.
Winters, whether we choose to enjoy them or not, eventually find us in life, so we either embrace the ones in nature so they can teach us or we don’t. I choose to embrace them because these days, where my skis slip beneath my feet and create heat as only XC skiing can on a 20-degree day (the sweat is so lovely to feel in the cold), has given me truths about living more than I ever imagined. Truths I would have missed if I was only looking for a way to endure rather than be fully alive within it, curious, pained, and hunting for its gifts.
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This week, I also shared these posts for subscribers:
How to Pay Attention This Week - Listening to Yourself
Crystalized Holiday Memories - During the holidays, grief can hang heavy on the tree branches as much as joy can
On Finding Contentment - Last week’s free newsletter
12/1 Reflection- The Unconditional Love of Place
As I skied through the untouched paths of the fresh lake-effect snow around our home, I stopped, my heart beating and the sweat forming beneath my layers despite the brisk air filling my lungs. The contrasts of heat and cold were sharp and lovely. All around me was a field of sumac with its smoldering red fruit pointing towards the sky. The sun shone just a moment between bands of lake-effect snow, and the fresh snow glistened just before the sun sank again behind the clouds.
At that moment, I felt in my element. The older I become, the more I realize how we often cannot buy these feelings but we can chase our passions blindly enough that they land in our laps and can slip away as easily as they come.
It was then I realized I was in a love story. A story of love for this place. Feeling the first flutter of a moment with someone you feel that jolt of electricity with. I was feeling that first eye glance of knowing what feelings are shared, but instead of a human, it was the land. It was then that I realized the romanticism that comes with finding a love for the land and our place in its story, not just the land’s place in ours.
Skiing through the rolling hills, I heard desires for this love I had always felt but didn’t know it could be more than it was.
I realized then that I longed to have the same sense of wonder for winter as I have with summer and autumn. I wanted to gaze at the falling snow with the same gratitude as the blossoming of a flower, the multicolored leaves, or the ripe tomato.
As I connected into the path of the coyote’s footprints on the trail, I realized just how much I would rather spend my days chasing the icy footpaths of the deer and coyotes than the ladders and rings of success. I have learned there is more wisdom in wandering the woods than chasing material things in this life.
I began to feel this electricity through my veins as I marveled at the world around me in its silence and magic. There was something here that I never would find anywhere else. A connection. A feeling of comfort. A sense of place and belonging amongst these hills. Something only fulfilled by embracing the love I was feeling. I wanted to love this land not just for its beauty or the ways it holds me but also for all the ways it is imperfect and needs me as much as I need it.
Loving a person or place unconditionally is incredibly hard. We must be okay that it will be imperfect, not fit our expectations at all moments, have its own beliefs and desires, be okay with it being uncontrollable, and yet we find a way to trust it enough to give it all of us. For me, this is the romance that I find amongst the hills here. I can see it for all it is and love it in its perfection and imperfections. To realize I can never control it, but only trust it. The land teaches me endless things, but how to love is among the most precious of lessons it gives me.
So I chase the wonder I feel on the trails. I find the beauty of this place as mesmerizing as the ways it demands me to be aware of it year after year. How, in some way, we can coexist in trust and love. Reciprocating the things we know we need and, most importantly, seeing the unspoken needs as only the ones we can both fully trust and not control can.
Why Celebrate Winter Solstice
In our Paid Subscriber chat, one of our subscribers (hi Natalie!) mentioned ideas for solstice celebrations. I wanted to bring some ideas here over the coming weeks so you can begin preparing.
First of all, I want to say there is a lot to “do” in this season, so if this isn’t in your wheel of things we want to do or have the energy to do, that is completely okay. In this week’s newsletter, I will share some info about why celebrating winter solstice is important to me, but next week, I will share ways to celebrate as adults and then the following ways to celebrate as a family unit if you have children.
That said, here are a few notes about Winter Solstice:
Winter Solstice marks the shortest day and longest night of the year. If we think of a circle, we are the the very bottom of the circle on this day. This means that we now only begin to gain sunlight. Believe it or not, we have been descending towards this day since Summer Solstice. The return to the light is a powerful shift in the nature’s rhythms.
Winter solstice is a marker of a new season—a time to indicate both the new beginning and the burning of the old.
This moment is a time to reckon with the darkness in the amount of sunlight we have and ourselves. Connecting and finding comfort in the dark is to learn to trust our intuition.
A moment to celebrate the energy of moving back towards the light. Days will only lengthen.
It acts as a reminder that winter isn’t about darkness but a return to the light. For many, this is life-giving to gain this perspective for a season of less light and low clouds.
Next week I will give you some ideas on who you can celebrate. There are traditions worldwide and through various civilizations over human history. Winter and Summer Solstice mark seasonal changes and how our light and energy can change.
Here are the things this week that I have been holding at the top of my mind and enjoying right now. Feel free to comment below anything you also love! I would love to hear in the comments. You all usually have some amazing things.
Eating: I made a napa cabbage salad with quick pickled carrot ribbons, lime dressing, and toasted peanuts. I served it with brown rice, tofu, and some kimchi made by a kid at our school, and man, it was delicious. Something about the complexity of a good cabbage speaks to me. Cabbage-eating humans are my kind of humans.
Harvesting: Thyme and other hardy perennial herbs. Despite the cold temps, I am still heading out under the snow to gather fresh herbs to eat. The best part of growing herbs such as Thyme, sage, and rosemary is that they bring these beautiful flavors late into fall.
Wearing: My mom recently found all my grandmother's old coats. They are from the 80’s and 90’s and are made of boiled wool. My grandmother had bought them at a local shop in Harbor Springs that still stands in town. Nothing is cozier, and I am glad she and I were built the same because I can enjoy them. It’s similar to this style, but I think vintage ones are way better than new ones.
Doing: I joined a few community-based groups for the winter months this year. One is a writing group (we start up on Monday in a cozy little cabin every other week to write and commune together in the heart of Leelanau). I also joined a local cohort of farmers and land owners looking to farm/build/tend and regenerate their land with climate in mind in conjunction with local conservation districts, the USDA, and Native American wisdom. You can learn more about the cohort through Crosshatch, an amazing Traverse City non-profit organization. I love the community and the passion for land restoration that exists here.
Lastly, I have pages of these writings in my notebooks, and I am unsure what kind of writing they are, but I feel I need to share them because I enjoy them, so maybe you will too. I shared the one about December on my notes today. You can see it here, but I also have one on November, Summer Memories and Listening to Self. Happy weekending!
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Megan, thank you for sharing what’s on your heart with us! I look forward to your posts every time I open Substack. Your writing is so beautiful. Thank you!
We’re Michigan expats living in Helsinki and the snow has arrived here this week. It’ll stick around for the next five months. I’m finding comfort in the short days here (sunsets at 2.30) as it give a break from The 24 hour light of summer. It’s a time to rest, sauna and get cozy.