Winter Connection

The lessons of deep snow: connection with the natural world, the self, and each other

This morning, we woke up to a heavy band of lake-effect snow coming down faster than I have seen snow accumulate in years. My husband spent an hour snow-blowing the drive, only for it to be four inches deep by the time he finished.

While the snow fell heavily, our little town awaited plowing out. At 11am when Tim finally came inside from clearing the drive, I put on my skis and headed out into a world of white to do some work at the library. Visibility was low due to the heavy snowfall. My ski boots disappeared in the depths even as I skied on the tire tracks of whoever decided to brave the roads this morning. We must have gotten nearly a foot of snow overnight.

As I skied to the library this morning, I only passed one vehicle on the road but stopped and visited with a few neighbors enjoying the snowfall on foot. One neighbor smiled at me excitedly, “This brings me peace.” Another neighbor who has lived here for most of his nearly 70 years of life told me, “In all my life here, I can’t ever remember the snow coming down this quickly.”

I smiled as I skied away; I love the moments of connection that heavy snow requires. Last weekend, while navigating Leelanau County roads on a snowy evening, I told my friend Jillian about a memory of living in Grand Rapids and experiencing a massive snowstorm. It was early 2011, and the whole city stopped under the snow. Cars were stuck, so friends and I walked down the middle of the empty streets to get out of the house. As we walked, we met other people out in the snow. Folks were trying to dig out their cars or push them out of snowbanks, and we stopped to help. There was a strong sense of camaraderie, the extra work created by the heavy snow drawing us together.

We often view the natural world as separate from us, perhaps especially so while living in places that have reduced our access to nature. Winter is seen as an inconvenience, something to endure. And yet, when it overtakes us completely, we are gifted something rare: a chance for us to encounter the necessity of community. I believe that community does not just include the people who dig us out of the snow, but the very elements themselves. The natural world, the people around us, ourselves: we are all so deeply interconnected.

This morning, I was invited to partner with the snow to get the quiet space I needed to work. Skiing was the safest way to get around on unplowed roads. The added bonus is that I was fully engulfed in the environment as I moved, the snow landing and melting on my face, my hot breath merging with the winter air.

This winter, I am really leaning into the guidance of the world around me. More than ever, I accept my lack of control. Winter swimming is a teacher for this. The stakes are higher, and my small part in the natural world seems more evident than ever before. I must pay attention to determine safe places to dip. I must consider the wind direction and speed, and now, I consider ice buildup on the shore. The Lake and the elements are partners in my experience and completely out of my control. Here is the lesson.

Our society has developed a separation from the natural world over the last few hundred years. Even those who engage with the natural world regularly often use words like “explore” or “discover” to discuss how they interact with place. Words that imply dominance. I hesitate to use this language, always looking for a more careful way to consider my role within and interaction with the natural world around me. Within me. The natural world I inhabit and am part of.

When I attended Dr. Robin Wall Kimmerer’s lecture this November, she discussed how nature has been poised as a commodity, a “resource,” by our society. We imagine that we are at the top of the hierarchy of plants and animals, but Dr. Wall Kimmerer suggests that we are “the younger brothers of creation.”¹ Instead of claiming the land around us as “real estate” or something to be tinkered with, what if we viewed it as sustainer, healer, and source of knowledge.

She suggested that the “land is the library,” and as I sit in our little library, completely snowed into the village, I think of all the knowledge resting under the snow. The tunnels the voles are making to stay warm and out of sight, the strength of the pines just out the window, burdened with a foot of snow and still standing tall. What knowledge does the land offer us? How can I honor that knowledge, reciprocate it, be responsible to it?

I want interaction and mutual care, a life intertwined with the world outside my door. Outdoor recreation has been my access point, and as I have built my relationship with the world I am a part of, I carry more of the weight of my responsibility to it. As my friend Ella says, “You protect what you love.”

Earlier this week, my winter swimming friends and I sat in a portable sauna on the shore of Lake Michigan. A creek babbled wildly nearby, and snow fell around us. The air temperature was 14 degrees, but after warming up, we went into the water. The location was chosen because we had paid attention to the wind patterns. We knew we wouldn’t be exposed to a subzero wind chill, nor would we be charging into waves. A reverence for the elements that comes from attention.

We ambled into the water, moving chunks of ice to clear a path for our bodies. We experienced the sensation of ice chunks pressing against our legs for the first time. We sank low, we breathed as the Lake breathed, a steady inhale and exhale that slowly shifted the ice around us. We were a part of it.

I think perhaps the lesson of all of it is embodiment. “To collect into or include in a body.”² I feel present in my body when I am including in the greater body of the world around me. I sit in cold water and feel the sensation, I am aware of the breath of the Lake pushing ice against my skin. I breathe with the water. I ski down the middle of the street as snow falls at a rate of 4 inches an hour, my face wet with the melt. I stop to talk with neighbors in the middle of the snowstorm, we offer each other help. I sit next to friends in the cold water, we lock eyes and breathe together. We collect into a body.

Post Recommendations

If you enjoyed this essay, you may also enjoy:

To Return and Return and Return To - a poem for the places that call us back, written last January. I enjoyed re-reading this poem today, as I talk about wishing I could get in the cold water. Look at me now, last year’s self!

The Honorable Harvest - this is where I shared reflections from the lecture I attended by Dr. Robin Wall-Kimmerer, an event that is clearly still impacting my thoughts.

Swim Club

I will keep this thread updated with swim club details. We’ve been pretty spontaneous with our swims lately due to cold temperatures and ice forming on the lakeshore. We will likely swim on Wednesday again and I’ll try to share information with time to plan!

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1. This quote is from a short film on “The Honorable Harvest” from a film series hosted by the Bioneers Conference. A really beautiful, short watch.

2. Definition from Dictionary.com