This is the season of sobriety. Trees have been unclad, days are frugal with their light. Only the important things speak, for only the essence is left to show itself.
This, too, was a somber season. Christmas in Fauch, is the name of the photo log I posted on Facebook and Istangram, since we were spending the first of two weeks of Christmas holiday with my parents. But this year, I won’t be celebrating Christmas. Not because we aren’t gathered around a family table, nog because we are skipping the festivities altogether, but because there is not enough true winter to summon the feeling that goes with Christmas, as far as I’m concerned.
Twenty years ago, snow was not exactly to be found aplnty every winter, either, but at least by mid-November the leaves would be bare and there was was one cold, long, dark month in which to anticipate the holidays. Midwinter felt like the actual middle of the winter. Now, fall is barely over. It might be dark, but as far as I’m concerned there isn’t any good reason to bring out the glühwein yet.
Shopping centers filled with fake christmas trees and bells chiming everywhere are but a poor consolation. I deeply regret the lack of true winter atmosphere, like Iregret an increasing number of things growing ever clearer over the last few years. Only commerce and coersion are fully ablaze. We are living in times that see light and dark more polarized than ever, no matter what end of the spectrum you happen to be on.
In our families, this year, we are very sober. It almost looks like a conscious agreement. No piles of presents under enormous christmas trees. A few candles an a helping hand for supper will amply suffice.
I turn to nature and let go of everything I feel has become obsolete to me. Old ideas ripened into decay, tenacious old patterens bursting slowly like bolsters ready to shed. Christmas even, if need be, or at least the versio of it I cherish from my childhood memories.
In the mean time, I will bury myself among the mosses and the mushrooms, I will grow quiet like the air in the web between branches waiting.
The days have begun, imperceptibly as may be, to lengthen again.