The Winter Wallows: Learning to Appreciate the Dark Seasons

On a recent afternoon, my roommate, Chelsey, and I went to Franklin, a town south of Nashville that boasts a quaint city square lined with storefronts and coffee shops. Standing in the center of the square is a Christmas tree taller than the buildings that surround it, all lit up in white lights. The word “Noel” sits atop a roof and green garland and red bows adorn the streetlamps that line the avenues. The afternoon was a characteristically-winter one—all grey and cold, the light quickly fading—so I bundled up in a scarf and hat in an attempt to keep warm.

Despite the magic of the moment, I pretty much hate winter. My feet are consistently cold from December to March, and the sun hibernates for weeks at a time. I’m the Scrooge of winter; everything is grey and my mood is quick to reflect that. I thrive in the temperate seasons of spring and fall, and I can even get behind the long days of summer, even when the sweaty Southern humidity makes me irrationally grumpy.

The other day, while putting fresh sheets on my bed, still warm from the dryer, I looked out my darkened window and ached for the summer light that lingered well into the evening. But now 4:30 pm arrives, and—thanks to Nashville’s uncomfortably-close proximity to the eastern time zone—with it, comes an early darkness. The bleak chill of winter sends me into a mood that I like to call the Winter Wallows. In the throes of the Winter Wallows, you will find me on most evenings hiding under a blanket on my couch watching entire seasons of The Office and New Girl, absently scrolling through social media and then wondering why I feel so crummy as I crawl into bed at night.

So you see, winter is a season I’ve never been able to appreciate; the second the thermometer measures below 50 degrees, I’m already mentally checked out and imagining the days when I can put the scarves away and break out the flowy skirts again. (Blame my weakness toward winter on my Louisiana upbringing.)

Last year at this time, I was working at a nonprofit doing primarily social work; I was a PR major, read: I had no prior social work experience. And it was hard; I’ve never struggled so much in a job as I did that one. As last year’s light faded into winter and as I continued at the nonprofit, I reverted to my habit of seeking solace in my fairytales of the Future, envisioning what life might be like once I had finally, fully committed to pursuing a freelance writing career. This is my default mode when I am displeased or uncomfortable or restless within the Present: wishing away entire days, weeks, months of my life for a time that I imagined would be better than the season I was currently in.

I do this with the season of winter and I do this with life’s winter seasons; I ignore the present reality while pursuing comfort in a Future that isn’t even real. I subscribe to the lie that the Future will be better than the Present. I do as C.S. Lewis writes: “[we] think of the Future as a promised land which favored heroes attain—not as something which everyone reaches at the rate of sixty minutes an hour, whatever he does, whoever he is.”

Chelsey and I went to Norway this summer. On a whim and thanks to a cheap flight offer, we spent a week traveling through the western fjords of Scandinavia’s jewel (subjective opinion, soz Sweden and Finland)—driving over snowy ranges and through miles of mountain tunnels, kayaking in a deep blue fjord nestled at the base of snow-capped peaks, drinking coffee in a valley dotted with yellow and purple wildflowers, the bleating of sheep from nearby farms carried by the wind. In the summer, the sun never fully sets—midnight is simply a perpetual blue dusk. In the winter, however, the sun hides itself almost entirely; most of the day is done in darkness.

Despite this lack of light, I read an article about how Norwegians, surprisingly, have lower rates of seasonal depression. There’s an entire word in their language, koselig, that describes a sense of coziness—“it’s like the best parts of Christmas, without all the stress. People light candles, light fires, drink warm beverages, and sit under fuzzy blankets.” These people who straight-up spend four months in near-total darkness don’t see winter as something to be dreaded, but rather a season to be celebrated.

The Norwegians know the secret to winter: they walk through it together and because of this, they do not fear the days when the sun makes it no higher than the horizon. Rather than isolating themselves from others and watching television reruns, they use the cold as an opportunity to draw closer to one another; they rely on the warmth found alone in community. And I think this truth applies to all seasons of darkness, both literally and metaphorically: the best way through darkness is by inviting others to walk alongside you, rather than withdrawing and wishing your days away for the “better life” you’ve placed in a fictional Future.

Can I do the same?

Walking through darkness together begins by reaching out, by stepping out into the cold even when the couch is so much more inviting. I know I must change my language and my attitude toward winter: these cold days are a chance to slow down, to make soup and light candles, to gather with friends in the glow of twinkling lights. Instead of placing our happiness in a Future we were never promised, let’s appreciate the season at hand. Instead of letting the darkness isolate us, let’s use it as the catalyst to connection. Let’s do winter together.

Who is Windrose for?

These are words for those who are wandering and wondering through the open spaces of young adulthood, words for those navigating the unchartered seas of a life all your own. Whether starting a new job or investing more in your current one, moving to a new city or creating a home where you already are, making new friends or feeling the loss of your old ones, booking that trip to Europe or only staring at a calendar void of vacation days, Windrose is for YOU.

Where do you ship?

We can only ship within the United States. Sorry to our international friends! We still love you! But you can still get your digital copy of Windrose!

When can I expect to receive my copy of Windrose?

Windrose Magazine is back in stock! Woo! You can expect to receive your magazine by the 3rd week of December -- just in time for December graduations and Christmas!

How will you be shipping these magazines?

We will be mailing your magazine via United States Postal Service. You will receive a tracking number via email once your magazine has been shipped.

Anything else I should know?

No returns; all sales final.

I still have questions...

Just shoot us an email at info@thatfirstyearblog.com and we'll respond as quickly as we can!

Featured

The End of An Era: Saying Goodbye to Windrose

Hi friends,

Announcement (sounds so formal, doesn’t it?):

It's the end of an era.

I’ve decided that, after nearly 8 years of telling stories of navigating life, this season of Windrose is drawing to a close.

Even Here: Words for When You're Wandering

When I was 22 years old, I visited the desert for the first time.

A metaphorical desert, if we’re getting technical.

I was fresh out of college, starry-eyed and eager to begin my post-grad life. I had big ‘ole me-centered dreams: a shiny, brag-worthy PR job in the music industry! An apartment with an exposed brick wall that (somehow) would fit an upright piano! A committed relationship with a kind, goofy man!

I got exactly none of those things.

To summarize an entire year’s worth of emotion: I was devastated.

What is Home?

Late last night, I flew back into town after a week away, the city lights covering the Valley like a blanket of incandescent flowers. I’ve flown into Phoenix at least a dozen times at this point. Usually, I can identify a handful of landmarks, like my antenna-scarred South Mountain or the twinkling lights of the bridges spanning Tempe Town Lake.

Flying into Nashville, however, was always different.

I Don't Live Here Anymore

I recently returned to Nashville for the first time since moving to Phoenix five months ago.

Before my reunion, I often said that the word “home” could apply to both Nashville and Phoenix. Nashville is my home. Phoenix is my home. I could find that home-sweet-home feeling in both cities.

During my 8 days back, I frequented my old haunts. The brickwalled coffee shop still serves the meanest mocha in town. The hillside winery still proves to be a worthwhile spot to sip away a sunny Sunday afternoon. The hip burger joint still offers a lovely evening to dine with friends, new and old. The lime-green Mexican restaurant on the corner of Whitebridge still feels like a queso-soaked refuge.

There were many “stills,” but there were changes, too.

Why did you move?

A cardstock print sits propped against the lamp on my desk: a taupe watercolor swipe outlining a peakside Saguaro, the sun a tiny ring above. Beneath this minimalist illustration are these words in typeface: “I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert.”

I happened upon this notecard-sized print on the way out of a shop last weekend, after already having completed another purchase. It was the last print of its kind in the pile. I had to have it. I returned to the cashier: “This one, too.”

You see, this verse has been a thread weaving through my story, simple words spoken by a prophet long dead, a passage of comfort I’ve returned to again and again since my pilgrimage to the desert four years ago, when I inked a cactus on my wrist.

The Good Old Days

Last week was National Margarita Day.

I did not, however, celebrate the holiday. Truthfully, I’ve yet to find THE Mexican place here in Phoenix. You know the one: gaudy decorations, cheap food, even cheaper margaritas.

But there’s a Mexican restaurant at the corner of Charlotte and Whitebridge in Nashville, TN.

You may have heard of it.

Witching Hour (or, Fighting Off Demons at 3 am with a Box Cutter)

Between the hours of 3 - 4 am, I find myself awakened by nothing in particular. The room is silent. There is no sound outside. No loud car horns. No dogs barking.

I’m upset.

I wish it was something other than just me. Then I could stop it. Nothing is to blame. It feels like moments have passed since I closed my eyes. The moments of a long dreamless sleep last about 4 hours.

10 Life Lessons This Cross-Country Move is Attempting to Teach Me

There are a few lessons life has attempted to teach me since my move — all things that I haven’t yet spiced up into a full essay, but deserve to be memorialized by my metaphorical pen nonetheless.

So I present a collection of lessons I’ve learned — and am still learning — in the last 3 months.

What Will Your Life Look Like?

Tomorrow marks 3 months.

Three months here, sharing a zip code with Saguaros.

“So how is Phoenix?” a friend asked me over the phone as I sat on my balcony beneath glowing string lights, a pour of raspberry wine in my hand. The sun was setting, painting the eastern mountains with rosy swipes of redemption.

How has Phoenix been these last three months?

What is it Trying to Tell You, if Only You’d Listen?

I went on a date recently. Two glasses of Riesling, pleasant conversation, and a perfectly amicable guy — it was an altogether fine evening.

However, I wasn’t interested in a second date.

Not because of any run-for-the-hills red flags. Not because I didn’t think he was cute. Not because we didn’t get along. I simply — wasn’t interested.

There’s no better way to explain it. No fear-based avoidance of the potential for a healthy relationship. No disdain for commitment that needs a heavy round of therapy to work through. Nothing deeper than the inner sense that a second date just wasn’t necessary.

But, I said yes to getting dinner again with him.

The Other Side of Yes

I’m a No Girl.

In many ways, this is a good thing. I’m able to confidently decline invitations that disinterest me.

“Want to go whitewater rafting?” No thank you, I’m comfy right here on the bank.

“Want to do a shot?” No thank you, I’ll take my liquor with lime juice and Triple Sec, plz.

“Want to try this carrot cake?” No thank you, Harry, I can’t eat gluten.

“Want to go to Broadway?” No thank you, I’d prefer to go to bed.

In many ways, however, being a No Girl originates less from personal boundaries and more from fear. Fear and I happen to be pretty tight; we talk on the daily. Fear has been the primary consultant for many of my life decisions, in fact.

A Song for Growth

A year ago, a friend of mine got a job at a well known tech company. He had been slogging through the interviews, and he finally got an offer. Obviously he deserved it. He was a hard worker, and his attitude for success and life was admirable to say the least. I knew he was beyond qualified.

But at the time, I was on a career path I couldn’t see myself being happy in. I had made the mistake of staying in the industry mainly for the money. Every month in the industry was a reminder of how much I did not want to stay. It created a nasty cycle of overthinking and career angst. Feelings of inadequacy and existentialism rooted themselves deep inside me. I couldn’t focus on anything and was utterly disconnected from the work I was doing.

I admit I wasn’t happy for him.

Life, Relationships, HealthAlly WillisDecember 10, 2017FeaturedComment