February
January was a long winter month. January was an insurrection, an impeachment, and an inauguration. January was hope with vaccinations, but still, January was death.
Wintering: in the days before Midwinter in Tennessee, I read Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times by Katherine May, and I absorbed the poetry of her work to refocus for the winter months ahead.
Hiding. In Hiding. Hidden: we retreat, during these difficult times of pandemic, to Vermont to winter and embrace the coldness.
Perched on a hilltop, our wooden cabin looks down over a snow-covered field and woodland, and across the state line in New Hampshire, a mountain rises in the distance. At sunrise, on days that bring light, an orange blaze surrounds the mountain. On crisp clear days that follow the magnificent sunrise when the snow crunches underfoot, you cannot ignore the presence of the mountain. On misty, grey mornings when it snows all day you cannot see the mountain, but you know it is still there.
Sunrise is earlier here than in DC; the sun sets earlier, too. In the mornings, I walk into the living room, which quickly floods with daylight; the orange glow of the heater in the corner invites me to sit, reflect, write, breathe, and sip. At night, the moon and stars are so bright and amplified by the reflection in the snow. The extra light in the darkest hours of the night, and in the darkest hours of the pandemic, is welcome.
Brattleboro, the town we stay above, also winters -- both because of the season and the pandemic. The coffee shop is only open on Friday and Saturday. Restaurants serve takeout on Friday and Saturday evenings with the three dishes of the day. In winter, you can’t access everything. You embrace what you have.
In town, the local grocery store is a cooperative with displays of local cheeses, maple syrup, and dark Bernie Sanders chocolate with LIBERAL amounts of sea salt. Next door, we pick up maple lattes which warm us we look out across the Connecticut River which gently flows where the ice has broken. The temperatures are negative Fahrenheit, which adds new layers of preparation to our travels. Two pairs of socks, and two pairs of pants. Two Jackets, and long-sleeved t-shirts under a thick sweater.
To reach Vermont from DC, the drive takes us through Maryland, Delaware, New Jersey, New York -- Manhattan shines in the cold winter sunshine, and the city shining brings me hope -- Connecticut, Massachusetts, and into Vermont. We add New Hampshire as we cross the state line twice - once by foot, once by car. In New Hampshire, there is a covered bridge over a frozen river. Then, we drive across the state of Vermont on the Mary Stark Byway, Vermont 9, from Brattleboro to Wilmington to Bennington. At the state line with New York, we turn the car around, before returning home to make minestrone served with Vermont cheddar and blue cheese, we stop, only briefly because of the temperatures, in the Green Mountain National Forest and Hogback Mountain Overlook. Winter surrounds us.
Winter at Great Falls, VA
Wintering at home: before Vermont, I winter in DC -- among the days of history and coup -- I set my alarm every morning to meet the sunrise. 07.28 is easy in early January, by early February, in Vermont, the sun rises before 7 am. Soon, on weekends, I don’t set an alarm but I still wake up with the sun, maximizing the light in the short days of January and February. I feel in sync with the sun that adds the gift of extra minutes of light to each day.
Light. When it starts to get dark I lower the blinds, light candles in every room, switch on lamps, hang string lights, and burn incense to create pockets of light. Across DC, there is light, too. Lights. Mourning. Dignity. Peace. Hope. On the eve of the inauguration, from dusk until dawn, 400 lights symbolize the 400,000+ lives lost to COVID-19 in the United States. From the rooftop, I see blue lights shooting into the clear night sky from the National Mall.
“When day comes, we ask ourselves where can we find light in this never-ending shade?” - Amanda Gorman
In the afternoons, for hygge, I find time for Kaffee und Kuchen, and I’m transported back to Vienna on a grey winter afternoon. An espresso brewed with beans from my favorite local DC roasters. Sweet cookies and chocolate sent from Europe over the holidays. For my birthday an Azerbaijani honey cake. In the days after the inauguration a chocolate chip cake with 46 in sparkling blue sugar. For Mardis Gras, a bright King Cake from a Louisiana style bakery.
Katherine May: “We must learn to invite the winter in.” That winter is the sadness we’re feeling in DC after the attack on our home, the grief of the ongoing pandemic, and the coldness of winter. Most years, the winter stops me and draws me to jump on a plane to the warmth of the sun-baked south. Instead, this year, here in the wind-swept north-east, I’ve invited winter in, and among the darkness, I’ve found light everywhere.
“For there is always light,
if only we’re brave enough to see it.
If only we’re brave enough to be it.”
- Amanda Gorman
