Tending the Dark
…while feeding the light. Musings on seasonal shifts, vastness, connection, and choice.
Winter greetings from the flurry-dusted West Virginia hills. Snow, already! (This is how locals know I am from a low-elevation Virginia valley.)
I am writing you groggily, no, haggardly slumped over my coffee. The cats did not let us sleep, and Mike arose at the ass-crack of dawn to go hunting with his dad and nephew. Knowing full well that I was irrevocably awake, I chose to make coffee for Mike in a demonstration of bleary-eyed solidarity. After he left I made another batch for me, spiked with chai latte powder—our special little holiday treat. It was maybe a small thing, making the coffee for Mike. Even smaller, making myself our fancy-winter-coffee-chai. But both were declarations of love, however small, and for that they held meaning.
In my young adult life I have not given myself full permission to lean into holiday tradition and nostalgia—too cynical? too cool for school?—but the return of our chai coffee is filled with it…as are the matching plaid jammies I gifted Mike for our first Christmas…aaand the infiltration of thrifted and/or foraged holiday decor throughout our barn-apartment. Clearly, the nostalgia has won me over. I blame my dear roommate from last winter, Maria. She was a decade younger than me but had a beautiful, crafty old soul. She filled our quaint space with charming holiday mugs, candles and greenery come Christmas. The effect was undeniably whimsical and warming, something like magic. It took the bah-humbug right out of me.
Truthfully, probably obviously, the impulse for nostalgia and sentimentality was already present in me. I am, as a friend once characterized, as soft as a marshmallow. Over time though, I got shy and protective about my soft side. Life jostled me around, as it does—I spent the last several Christmases uprooted or grieving or tangled in anxiety. Perhaps my personal lows were all the more apparent and embarrassing when held in high relief against the glowing portrayal of love, magic and wonder attributed to this season.
In some respect, I suppose this year’s holiday season is no different. In our home we are feeling the sharp edge of grief that accompanies the first holidays after a tragic loss. The stark contrast of highs and lows remains. But in other ways, this season is singular. I suppose the biggest difference is the choice to hold it all, instead of allowing swells of darkness to snuff out glimmers of light. In psychology speak we could call this “correcting the negativity bias.” Especially on my part, tending to the dark—but not getting consumed by it—while feeding the light is a conscious choice that takes painstaking practice.
It helps having steady hands to hold, while fumbling and stumbling (i.e., the reality of what it means to practice.) My partner, friends, family, therapist, and communities near and far act as a web of support offering patience, strength and grace along the path. It is another practice to remember that I am intricately woven into this web, too, belonging to a structure greater than myself. This notion draws from Thich Nhat Han’s teachings on interbeing, or our interwoven dependence on one another. It is all too easy to assume separateness and singularity, especially in the thick of suffering. But the deeper truth is that we are never alone in any feeling or experience. Our world is too big, too vast, too complex for that, and we are all a part of it.
Last weekend Mike and I experienced a taste of that vastness while on a shivery visit to nearby Bickles Knob. Bickles is the mountainous equivalent of a protective, but gentle, older brother: broad and impressive, with long sloping shoulders that arc over Elkins. At the base of the mountain, a mythic set of CCC-era stone pillars mark the entrance to the Monongahela National Forest. And perched directly on top, a wooden fire tower provides a 360-degree view of that forest and the outer reaches of Randolph County. Given the fire tower’s easy access by forest road and proximity to town (30 minutes from our door,) it’s a popular spot for sunsets, moonrises and impromptu field trips such as ours.
On this particularly clear Sunday we drove the winding forest road up to Bickles Knob despite the frigid temps. First, let me just say: I was not entirely jazzed to head out into the cold. Like any self-respecting “lazy Taurus,” I relish winter’s imperative to hibernate. It suits my introverted desire to knit on the couch for hours while devouring episodes of Bridgerton and waiting for sourdough to rise. And the hours of cold darkness are demanding indeed! Who am I to argue against a cozy warm bed when the sun sets at 5 pm? No, no, instead I will be lighting candles and yielding to the seasonal tug to slow the fuck down.
And.
I’ve found myself antsy for fresh air and greedy with sunshine, when I can get it. This is not an adrenaline-fueled impulse to run long miles, cold weather be damned. Admittedly, a part of my stagnant self yearns for that level of challenge. But no, my metrics shift after daylight savings hits. Gone are the halcyon, light-filled days of long hikes and evening runs. These days, I am good with simply stepping out for an hour or two and turning my face toward the sun.
It helps, too, that I am a sucker for the peaceful austerity of the woods in winter. Trails are quieter after the mass exodus of songbirds and summer hikers. There is a feeling of spaciousness from trees stripped bare of their foliage—the forest now echoes like a cathedral with innumerable columns of bare trunks. This translates to a mental spaciousness, too. I walk and think slower in the winter woods, with a reverent calm. My fingers may go white and my toes numb (poor circulation club,) but it is worth the deep contentment from an afternoon soaked in fleeting sunlight and the complete silence of the forest.
Up on Bickles, that sense of austerity and silence became exaggerated by distance. It was utterly sobering, even as the vista was absolutely dizzying. The blue, mountainous expanse unfurled in every direction as far as the eye could see—a rumpled, earthen sea. Weak winter sun cast a forlorn, milky light down over the scene. And all around and throughout, the wind whistled, reddening our cheeks ruddy. It took our breath away, as a cold wind does, and emphasized our smallness in the particular way mountain vistas do. I felt all the more alive, exhilarated and raw, and blessedly contextualized within the vastness of that landscape. The world is indeed grand and expansive; from the vantage of the fire tower, that reality was viscerally felt.
As a delightful follow up, we picked our way through spruce and rhododendron thickets to forage greenery for homemade wreaths. Mike provided wise biologist-counsel to snip the lower spruce branches to avoid new growth, and I provided an idiotic level of holiday spirit while filling my arms with their fragrant boughs. Sounds idyllic, I know. And it was, in fact, bracingly good to be out! in! the! cold! Overall, the outing exemplified what awaits when we choose to shake off our wintry slump, if only for a few hours. It felt auspicious, even—a perfect welcome to this equally merry-making and sobering winter season.
Speaking of foraging, or in this case gathering—you likely noticed a change in the title of this newsletter! always practicing something has become Woolgathering. To be completely honest, I was never a fan of the prior title. It always felt vague, directionless, and a bit bemused. But I went with it because I needed to get writing already, and figured it would serve as a space-holder until I found something more resonant.
Woolgathering is maybe a funny improvement, in that it only emphasizes the sense of vagueness and directionless-ness. To woolgather is to “indulge in aimless thought or dreamy imagining” (Oxford’s defintion.) Synonyms include reverie, musing, distraction and absentmindedness. So there is a heightened suggestion of abstraction, to be sure. But what there isn’t—and this is the important part, for me—is a sense of bemusement, self-consciousness or defeat. I’m not “always practicing something” (said with a sigh and a shrug;) I’m here to woolgather.
It also doesn’t hurt that I just picked up knitting, though I am not about to make this a knitting blog or anything of the sort. But still, a fun coincidence!
Daydreaming can be seen as indulgence, but it also happens to be the seat of creativity. Well that and, paradoxically, the discipline to show up doggedly in whatever craft you practice. But if I do not first give myself permission to wander and play, to inquire and explore and dare-I-say forage, no new connections or insight can be made. My discipline then becomes rote, hollow and lifeless. So I woolgather to fortify my own dreaminess and to coax out my muse, in a world that often feels propelled forward by and hyper-focused on productivity.
I’d like for this newsletter to continue as an accountability project, as originally intended. It helps knowing that my words are not falling into a void or landing on deaf ears. Having an audience or, preferably, a community of readers compels me to stay invested in the craft of writing and the daily digging of creative, intentional living. To that end, I would love if you would like to comment or email and tell me a little about yourself. Writing, like any art form, is a living thing dependent on connection. It would be so, so good to hear from you!
I’ll end on a note of pure honesty: all previous, high-minded talk of interconnection aside, connection can be a mixed bag for me. I crave it even as it highlights all my insufferable (to me) insecurities. For this high-strung introvert adjusting to life in a new-to-me, small mountain town, connecting can be rewarding or anxiety-inducing, depending on the day. Put another way: making friends is hard!
Like most of life’s hard truths, I’ve known this cognitively but haven’t viscerally felt it since I was what, eleven? Both my college and post-college years included a kind of pre-packaged camaraderie from my dorm, class, or job experiences. Looking back, I really didn’t have to try very hard; friends were always just, there. This was, I see now, the sweetest of blessings and also a hindrance to my future-self’s social development. Because y’all, making friends as an adult is even harder!
No adult reading this needs to be told. Between the competing demands of work, committed partnership, family, health, and home (the dishes and the laundry really do be taking an eternity), even the most valuable of friendships can get sidelined. So to build a new one from scratch? A tall order indeed. Let’s also not forget the disorienting reality of getting older and shedding previous versions of yourself, including previous ways of relating. I have this whole bank of memories, places I’ve been and people I’ve known, and none of it is relevant because I’ve never been this version of myself here before. Well okay, the basics are relevant—being kind and authentic and engaged, for example—but you see the point I’m trying to make.
For the majority of my time in Elkins, I’ve relied on my cafe gig for the bulk of my socializing (if you can even call it that, given that I am on the clock and often distracted.) It’s been safer that way, protected as I am behind the pastry cases and espresso machine. I can be witty and lively in small doses, without revealing the tenderer insecurities and struggles that have marked my inner world lately. Barista Andrea is disarming while remaining guarded, which ultimately is appropriate for a work setting anyway. But to use it as a stand-in for the cultivation of actual relationships? Not quite.
Here’s the thing: I love being alone. I love languishing in my little world (see the aforementioned, knitting/Bridgerton-watching/bread-baking.) I don’t get tired of my own company. I always want to spend time in those inner spaces, making things and pondering and not wondering if I’m saying the right thing. And it’s been long enough since I’ve had friendships that depended on a regular frequency that I’ve sort of forgotten how that dynamic works. My closest and dearest know how it goes, for all of us—life is busy and so we catch up when we can.
But here’s the other thing: I love and need people. As do we all! While the capacity to be self-entertained alone could be seen as admirable—so self-sufficient! So independent!—it can also become a crutch. My introversion can become a barrier if I’m not careful, blocking all the wild & precarious delight of being a human in relationship. I hate it and I love it, but the truth remains that friendships are formed not only through consistency and showing up, but also by being real.
This blurry (on purpose, for privacy,) photo captures the particular, wild & precarious delight of connection. In a rare gesture of spontaneity and socialization, I recently accepted an invitation to a local women’s walking group. I’d heard there would be wine concealed in travel cups, lingering on porches and the general laidback ease of a standing date. Sign me up, right?
What I could not have predicted was the convergence of the majority of the group text, as opposed to the more typical, sporadic attendance. I could not have foreseen the raucous vivacity of a gaggle of women descending en masse on the local brewery. I had no idea it’d be so silly and endearingly unhinged and so much fucking fun. I returned home to Mike that evening on a contact high from sharing space with so many strong, cool, wise women. It was a shock to my system not unlike the bracing good of the cold after the stagnancy of hibernation. I’d forgotten how revivifying, how joyous, how necessary community like that can be.
The thread weaving it all together for me—Christmas decorations, navigating the highs & lows of the season, interbeing + nature’s vastness, title changes and a foray into a local women’s group—is choice. Intention is a good and necessary precursor, but I’m trying to stay focused on the action and commitment implied in the word “choice.” That is where real change lies. Choosing to make the holiday coffee, to decorate, bake, craft, and otherwise invest energy in celebrating the season. Choosing to step out into the cold in the hopes of experiencing my place in the vastness of all things. Choosing to stay the course with myself and my people when darkness threatens to swallow us whole. Choosing to honor my place in the fabric of things by participating, giving, and receiving. Choosing to show up, every day, with whatever goodness I can muster.
Happy holidays, all. I hope you’re choosing love, whatever that looks like for you and yours this season. And when you don’t, can’t, or won’t, I hope you’re being easy on yourself in the aftermath. May this be a season of choosing giving and light, even in the darkest times.