Winter solstice. Tomorrow we in the northern hemisphere will experience our shortest day, or longest night. Yesterday, last night, into early this morning, a record-breaking snow storm ripped up the east coast and dropped nearly two feet of snow on Philadelphia, grounding planes, chasing last minute Christmas shoppers indoors. The city was hushed. Walkers took to streets where few cars rolled. My husband's planned trek to Cape Cod-- a "guys weekend" with a close friend-- was canceled. My courtyard neighbors, all of whom have plans to scatter for the holiday, postponed their travels for a day or two. Today as the skies cleared and the sun sparkled the snow banks, all of us came out in mismatched layers, boots, mittens--warm and dry trumps fashion on a day like today--and we chatted as we shoveled, catching up with each other's lives in small flakes of conversation, stopping, each of us, frequently, to marvel at the beauty of trees or to grin at the sight of children sledding down usually busy Third Street.
I have been thinking this week of hibernation, of all the ways that these days of shortened light and increased cold signal me as a mammal that it's time to rest, restore and listen to the stillness. Last Thursday, the sidewalks still bone dry, my yoga teacher told the class that the winter solstice is a good time to get quiet. Only when we get quiet, she reminded us, will we find solutions to problems, will our creativity be able to bubble to our surfaces. She was talking, as a yogi, about finding my "true self," but I thought immediately of my writing process, about how when I am too busily engaged in my "mental manager," I rarely get a creative piece going, but sometimes, often, on a quiet walk or when I'm soaking in a hot tub, an idea, a line, maybe just an image or a word or two, will float into my head. "Let go of the question," the yogis say, "and the answer will follow."
When my children were little, I let go control and learned humility. It didn't happen all at once; the idea wasn't native to me or consistent with my upbringing at all. But bit by bit, I began, at least occasionally, to operate according to the dictates of what I referred to as my "snow day theory of life." To wit: The day you plan to get done all those errands you've been avoiding, or want to edit that story or need to return a dozen phone calls, it snows, schools are closed, kids are home, bored and needy, and your plans are shot to hell. Slow down. Give up on snapping through the to do list. It was my "turn lemons into lemonade" moment the first time I thought "I'm not just ripping my hair out one strand at a time. I'm becoming flexible." The snow day theory blanketed all sorts of frustrations-- sick days, flat tires, phone lines down.
I woke yesterday and found both cats stretched out at the foot of the bed, sleeping the sleep of the redeemed. No cat nap edginess; I stomped around and they did not move. I hovered over each of them to assure myself their breath was still making their bellies-- ever so gently-- rise and fall. Usually they are rammy first thing in the morning, in search of food and attention, still wired from their nocturnal house explorations. Outside, the snow fell in fat, steady flakes and the wind blew drifts sideways. Whatever we had planned, we were going to have to unplan. "What the hell," I thought, "mammals that we are, we should all be out cold," and I crawled back in beside them and, in the stillness, my mind happily wandered.
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