Winter’s Small Splendors
“Walk
Ross Gay, from his poem, “Thank You”
through the garden’s dormant splendor.
Say only, thank you.
Thank you.
Except for snowfall—that pure miracle of soft, icy flakes falling from the sky and the hush that follows, how the earth gets draped in a blanket that softens the somber hues—winter’s gifts are sometimes hard for me to see.
Most days, when I take a walk or simply glance out a window, the world seems drab in these cold days of long nights. Except for the occasional evergreen, only dull browns and grays meet my eyes.
I’m carrying with me into this year the question of what it means to be indigenous to Earth. Of earth. Of the chill and darkness, of stillness and dormancy. And, as I discovered when I looked a little closer—of small gifts and splendors.
Two springs ago, we planted some mountain mint to attract honey bees and other pollinators. The mint grows two feet tall, and at its peak in summer, it droops with an abundance of white blooms. Now those blooms are chunky and gray, interesting in their own right, and rich with seeds for spring’s effulgence.
In our backyard, winter camelias had bloomed. A few hardy, persistent blossoms still cling, some pink, some crimson. But many lie where they fell among dead leaves and mulch, creating an unusual still life at my feet.
Even the deep cold we’ve experienced lately offers a gift. Early mornings near sunrise, cozy in my flannel pajamas, I step out with a hot cup of tea to greet the day. I stand outside until the body’s warmth gives way to frigid air. I’m invigorated, enlivened. And wide awake!
Winter also invites us to reflect, calm ourselves, hibernate at least a little, give thanks. It offers us a chance to recognize our place in the seasons and cycles of the cosmos. We too bloom, go to seed, lie dormant or fallow. We too surprise with small splendors.
