In January and February, I often fill my list books with fresh schedules. Sometimes, I put the whole year out before me, with projects for every month. Sometimes, though, I waver between dreams of the future and the myopia of hibernation.
On the one hand, I can count, if I choose, all the steps to spring. Everything lies out in promises so rich and sweet. Now dawn is coming earlier for the first time since June. In a few days, my gnomon will actually measure the turn of the Earth toward April; sunlight will fall just a little lower on my far north wall.
The year past, which ended with the collapse of the final autumn foliage, is already five weeks old. The dark morning sky already prophesies the summer: An hour before sunrise, Orion has set. Sirius has moved deep into the west, Cancer and Gemini following it. The Big Dipper is overhead. June‘s Arcturus is coming in from the east, and August’s Vega has risen in the northeast
This week, the titmice will call. In two weeks, the owls will court; in three weeks the crows will become restless; in four weeks the cardinals will sing; in five weeks the doves will sing; in six weeks the skunk cabbage will be open and the robin chorus will start; in seven weeks the sap will run in the maples; in eight weeks snowdrops will bloom; in nine weeks, the pussy willows will open; and then the aconites, and then the finches will turn gold. There is hardly time to get ready.
On the other hand, winter fever – like spring fever – short circuits my ambitions. It convinces me to stretch out like the cats in front of the wood stove, to remain unthinking and still, to retreat into the moment, to be here alone and rest and sleep. There is challenge enough to come, the fever tells me: conflict, passion, pain, encounter. The road ahead is fast and loud; the end is certain and hard. I should stay here and be cleansed and cherished. Winter is an angel, my body says; winter lasts forever; hide beneath its wings.
Bill Felker
Beautiful Bill!