Strange desires seemingly unearth themselves within me given this time of year. We are securely surrounded by the cold (our forecast predicted ‘freezing’ as the high temperature), there is a frequent need to add additional clothing, and abundant is the great white precipitation we affectionately call snow. I question myself, although briefly, of the temptations that I contain. And be it that these temptations appear in the form of popsicle and ice treats, always in the cold.
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Wintry ruminations whilst the snow-storm affectionately known as Echo blasts the hills, coats the prairie, and blankets the town. Affection steadied for powerful storm systems (so long as all are safe) – and the ability to briefly disconnect from life and reconnect with those external forces. It’s in these unexpected moments that there exists real seduction – a break from the plans, a path not ordinarily pursued, and a few extra stolen rudimentary breaths.
It’s been a wild-weathered kind of day (a sad day of demise in the eyes of fair-weathered people). Cold air coupled with 100 percent humidity. A freezing fog that ignited all life outdoors in a sharp and rigid frost – the most scenic. A weighted pregnancy to the skies and clouds all morning, a look lending itself to impending stormy circumstance. And finally, after a continuous slickening, the precipitation. A precipitation that continues as word merges with screen. A desertion from normalcies, and this I like.
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a little kiss of holiday chaos and the promise of new snow in the forecast – these are the dear dreams surrounding this weekend. december undoubtedly carries the greatest weight of the year – home to an array of celebratory holidays, as well the finality of an entire year’s worth of months. not necessarily a burdensome weight, but a heavy gravity nonetheless. it’s here in december that we sign the waiver for the new year – ablaze with enlightenment for the prospect of new and limitless. to recollect, to gather, and to begin again.
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Our first week into December and there is much to be celebrated: a pleasantly warm week, a growing collection of next season seed catalogs, and holiday mode in all respects. I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t feed into the celebratory vibrations ten-fold. Although I say this of all seasons, I thrive this time of year. I am magnetized to the feeling that accompanies the end of the year. Long dog walks in the snow, jubilant bird-watching in the park, and toasty ovens and stoves. Festive dealings, darkness illuminations, rosy cheeks, and all-encompassing warmth. I love the coat of late autumn and early winter.
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The brussels sprouts were my project this year. Last winter I romanticized during nomadic travel about the lengths we would traverse to facilitate growing all the deepest joys of our taste buds. Often times, when conversation on the long road fell to silence, I would come to murmur vegetable breeds we knew and loved, speaking of them as old fond friends. The bleakness of the country’s winter landscape would lull my mind into fantastical daydreams about the first tendrils of the new growing season – the decompression of winter’s bite, and the burgeoning of bud and blossom. On the muted and frosted horizon I could see our new garden growing.
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