My skis have sat by the front door for nearly a month. Unused, waiting for the snow to return. Waiting for January to feel like January, for the gloom to fade just a little. I anticipated I would ski less frequently this year than in years past, my pregnant belly and waning energy making it difficult to get out when the conditions allowed, but I did not expect this. I did not expect that as January neared its end, I would still be waiting for my first real ski of the year.
I did ski once, just before Christmas, as a blizzard hung over our village, making things feel cozy, festive, and a little dangerous. We sat by our Christmas tree, waiting for the power to go out, making a plan for how we would stay warm, for how we would keep the pipes from bursting while simultaneously keeping the food in the fridge from spoiling. The power never went out, but we found ourselves buried in snow, strong winds causing huge drifts, making the roads nearly impassable.
While I could have driven the few blocks to the post office, I took the opportunity to ski there instead, thrilled by the chance to imagine we lived much farther north than we do. I geared up, stepped into my cross-country skis, and glided down the center of our unpaved village streets. I made an attempt after visiting the post office to ski to the lake, but as soon as I turned west on the road to our public beach, the wind blasted full force, visibility disappeared, and I opted to return home rather than risk the weather.
That week, it seemed like we were in for a real winter, one that would have us shoveling and snow-blowing all season long. I told my son, “your sister will arrive after the snow melts,” expecting that we would have snow until April. But within a week, the snow melted, and other than the occasional morning dusting, we haven’t seen it since.
It has been a grey January, in a way that matches my melancholy mood. It has been a hard month, and I have struggled to find energy and motivation in this new year. It isn’t just the lack of sunlight and snow that makes the world seem dull, but an absence of life. Winter seems quieter without snow: the trails empty, the roads clear. The amplifying silence of snow is gone, and instead, a dismal absence of noise descends on the dormant earth. Even the animals seem quieter, less active. The deer pilfer in our yards a little less, as there is plenty of accessible food for them to snack on in the woods.
One morning last week, we awoke to snow, inches that had accumulated overnight. Before I was even out of bed, Daniel was checking the snowfall, “it’s on the ground, Mama.” This was enough to stir me out of bed faster than my normal, slow trudge. The light coming in the window looked different, just a little brighter as the rising sun reflected off the white ground.
On that morning’s walk, every noise felt heightened, the snow turning up the volume on winter activities. A stand of Norway Spruce sang out a chorus of drip, drip, drip as the snow on their boughs melted and splashed to the snow-covered ground underneath. Two pileated woodpeckers called to each other across the street, a loud whinnying, soon accompanied by wind chimes from my neighbor’s porch. A winter song, one that I have longed for these last bleak weeks of January. Have these sounds been present all along, and it was simply more difficult for me to hear them over my own sense of isolation? Or is the whole world a little more alive, a little more present, when snow falls as it should in January?
The most recent snow was wet and heavy; it was a workout to push the stroller to the library, completely unsuitable for cross-country skiing. Even still, it made me feel less adrift to see the big flakes falling from the sky, to feel that, at least for today, January is still January.
Enjoyed your post! January with its intense white fields and brilliant blue skies is usually the most beautiful month in a Michigan winter (I'd argue it is one of the most beautiful of ALL our months.) After interminable weeks of gray, it was amazing how uplifting the white was, even without January's customary sun. It wasn't just the gray, we had no precipitation either, which felt ominous. Last week's rain was even a happy diversion. But, as I wrote about in my profile of painter Ron Waara, not all Michiganians love the color white enough to bring it inside in the winter. : - )
Winter Silence
Snow lays in
soft white silence
across the rolling hills
outside my door
Winter greets me with a
uniquely restful hug that is
far removed from the
raucous green erotica
of summer’s hugs
Trees rooted in secrecy
ground the soft white silence
of this gray morning
to the wonder in my heart
Even though clouds
obscure the sky
and the heavens above
the soft white silence
helps me feel the stars
come in close
close enough
to touch
01/23/23
F K Wynkoop