Truth in the Tension

[Seasons: Winter XIII]

Winter is a season of harsh opposite. Outside it’s 27 and sleeting, but inside it’s 72 and the fire is ablaze. Again, outside is saturated from precipitation, slushy with ice, but everything indoors, either stored in the shop or kept in the house, is bone dry. 

Though we are drawn to the dry, warm indoors, we are compelled by the challenge of holding the opposites in tension—keeping them as close to each other as we can without mixing. We buy expensive down jackets and Gortex shells so we can be outside and yet stay dry and warm. We buy snowshoes and skis so we can be in the snow, and yet still above it and dry. 

What is this draw to live in the tension of opposites? 

Why is it enjoyable to hold opposites close without them commingling? 

Winter reminds us that the deepest truths in life—the most meaningful values and powerful virtues—are not a denial of their opposites, but in close tension with our proclivities toward their opposites. Unless we are honest that, say, our judgement is an arm length from our love then we will be unprepared to address the ugliest parts of ourselves when it rears its head. 

In other words, truth doesn’t give way to what’s opposite of good, but it’s honest with just how close it is. Truth holds the tension.

Winter Hope

[Seasons: Winter XII]

We don’t often associate hope with winter. Winter is when the leaves have fallen and the trees are bare, the pregnant animals are expecting and uncomfortable but nowhere near delivering, and the garden sits flat and dark, barely even hospitable to weeds. 

We associate hope with a feeling like elation or expectancy or energetic. And those aren’t feelings we have when it’s 37 degrees and raining.  

But winter is a busy time. It’s when we order seeds and repair tools. It’s when we review our planting schedules, make to-do lists, and write down our goals. It’s the season we plant two-foot tall dormant fruit trees, prune more mature trees, and dress them with wood chips and mulch. There’s (cold) seasonal work. Always. 

Perhaps some hope has no correlation to feelings of uplift. 

The hope of winter is not a feeling nor is it a longing for a future, better season that makes us feel alive. Winter hope is purely doing what needs to be done. And that’s embodied hope—measurable actions that contribute to the type of world we dream about.

Layered Responses

[Seasons: Winter XI]

Here in the PNW, there is no bad weather; there is only bad clothing. The long, grey, thirty-five-degree-and-raining winter months would force every Californian I know to crave coffee and a couch. But in the PNW, that’s perfectly good conditions for a hike—so long as you have the right layers. 

Winter is when we layer our clothing. A big bulky overcoat on top of a t-shirt is not functional; it doesn’t encourage being active. A good mixed material shirt, a down mid-layer, and a quality shell will protect against almost all the elements, store efficiently, and can be layered on or peeled off depending on the fluctuating temperatures. 

Winters are a reminder that even if a season appears one-dimensional—grey and cold—it’s complex and always evolving. “Hunker down and wait it out” is like an overcoat: it’s bulky and too simplistic. It doesn’t account for the particularities of the seasons or the complexities of the weather. Layered seasons require layered responses. 

There’s ultimately no bad winter season; there’s only bad advice on how to engage it.

Winter Moon

[Seasons: Winter X]

Winter is the darkest season. The sun spends less time in the sky, traveling a lower and therefore shorter arc above the horizon. It rises later and sets later, making days shorter and colder. The opposite is true for the winter moon. Its arc is higher and it stays in the sky longer than in the summer. It is literally brighter at night in the “dead” of winter than in the “height" of summer. For all its darkness, winter has its bright spots.  

Spiritual clarity often happens in the middle of life’s winters. Like the moon, insights often hit us when the warmth and glow of living seem to have disappeared. Often our ego shines like the the summer sun; sometimes our capabilities and self-confidence light our entire path. When life feels well lit, illuminating truth is often muddled or missed altogether. 

(Aurorus Borealis only occurs in the winter. Consider it a spiritual metaphor.)

Retreating Underground

[Seasons: Winter IX]

 From my window I can see four fruit trees and a nut tree. Twiggy and bare, they look dead. Unlike the Douglass Fir behind them—erect, green, and still vibrant—the fruit trees are lifeless. 

I know better, which is why winter is the season for pruning. The fruit trees aren’t dead, their vitality has merely retreated. In the warmer months, sap, like blood in the human body, flows freely to the furthest reaches of the tree’s appendages. The opposite is true in the winter: the sap, along with the tree’s nutrients, hibernate in the lowest portion of the trunk and in the roots. The structure of the tree can be manipulated by removing whole branches, but its future health is not threatened.  

Winter often looks and feels like death. Perhaps your vitality has retreated underground for a time. And like a tree, it’s holding in a dark place, waiting to burst forth in the spring.

Avoiding Exposure

[Seasons: Winter VIII]

Most of us wear two or three layers during the cold winter months, which only intensifies the chill when the cold air reaches our necks and wrists. Solution: scarf and gloves. Winter is the seasons to cover everything up, leaving no exposed skin. (Come to think of it, I haven’t seen a bare shoulder in months.)

The winter seasons of life are when revealing too much is threatening to our wellbeing. It’s when our highest priority is to avoid exposure and seek safety. Other seasons we may be comfortable with and even seek out vulnerable experiences, but winter is a time for attending to our sensitivities, guarding our wounds, and protecting ourselves. 

There are seasons when intentional exposure makes sense. Winter is not it. Exposure and vulnerability is never easy, but some seasons it's downright dangerous. 

Winter is for guarding, self-care, and seeking shelter and safety. And that’s okay. Even necessary. Cover up and care for yourself, and those that know you well ought to encourage the same.

Leaving the Hearth

[Seasons: Winter VII]

Winter is scary. It’s grey. It’s cold. It’s barren. Everything appears dead. 

Next to the fire is cozy. The brick hearth is stable and warm. The soft chairs are comfortable. 

If we spend all winter by the hearth, we’d go mad. There’s a certain craziness—stir crazy, cabin fever, various forms of immobilizing melancholy—that develop if we spend too much of the winter by the fire, afraid of going outside. 

Winter is scary, and it remains that way until we step into it. We must confront it to appreciate it. We must bundle up and explore it to understand that there’s less to fear and a whole lot more to learn than we thought. 

Our inner winters are the same way. We have our own hearths that are warm and safe. We’ll become unhealthy if we cling to them all winter. We must dress appropriately and step into our fears, if we have any chance of understanding them.

Gift of a Different Angle

[Seasons: Winter VI]

The winter sun is not the same. 

I think Father Sun and Mother Nature conspire against half the globe three months out of the year. Nature decides to bring cold temperatures, precipitation, and long nights; the son agrees to stay low in the sky and never heat up. 

As we know, it’s the same sun. It’s just at a sharper angle, which lengthens shadows and makes for shorter days. At a different angle, even the light appears different, the “high” noon has a whiter, crisper hue, and both ends of the day are full of softer pastel shades. The angle makes all the difference.

One of the gifts of winter is that we see our lives from a different angle. Light refracts differently and the shadows are more prominent. 

What do the changing colors of our life teach us this orbit around the sun? What have we ignored about our shadows? What looks different now that I thought would never change?

Winter is the seasons to ask these questions. 

Searching for Heat

[Seasons: Winter V]

Winter is not without work. 

Currently one son is tapping Big Leaf Maples for syrup. That must happen in the winter. I’m busy clearing forest, not for aesthetic purposes, but because winter is the time for felling timber so it can be split and stored this summer and seasoned by next winter. And everyone is busy giving extra care to animals that need support when conditions are harsh. 

While work doesn’t cease in the winter, it is concentrated on a singular target: heat. (Even the syrup is mere water until heat is used to reduce it 50:1.) 

There are winter seasons in life that are cold too, when all our work and attention must be given to finding warmth. When our efforts are reduced to such a simple, mundane activity as finding heat to survive, it can feel isolating—like we’re looking out from our own personal snow globe. Others appear stable while we feel vulnerable, huddled in our down overcoat and shivering. Others are smiling while our hearts are heavy and we're experiencing exhaustion. 

Winter is isolating. 

Despite what it looks like from inside your snow globe, everyone winters. We’re all experience exhaustion and are looking for warmth. (And, yes, we all occasionally put on shorts and sunglasses and pretend like we’re not shivering.) 

Everyone has seasons where they can literally do only ONE thing. It’s not selfish. Nor is it weak. It’s winter.

Too Important to Miss

[Seasons: Winter IV]

Thankfully retreating is becoming popular. In an overworked and rather unhealthy society, I celebrate the popularization of anything that resembles a healthy corrective. Retreating is a practice to celebrate. 

A retreat is simple but profound. It means to withdraw, to disconnect, to rest. Most of us are overdue for a retreat. 

There's a problem, however: retreats have also been commodified, and like any commodity, there is a spectrum of status attached to the higher priced options. And with status comes increased attention and more popularity. So, retreating is often conceived as an expensive act of self-pampering rather than a simple withdraw. 

Instead of two days in a tent in the woods, a retreat has become a day at the spa or a luxury B&B at the base of the ski slope. 

Winter will have none of it. Winter is forced retreat. No status. No cost. 

Inherent in the season of winter is a perennial wisdom lost on the modern concept of retreat: withdrawing, disconnecting, and hibernating are too important to miss.

Winter still gives options. Soft or hard retreats. A soft retreat is a slowing down, partial disconnection from what's normal. It allows for catchup, with longer breaks for thinking, bigger investments of time in cooking and eating, and less manic filling of the calendar. A hard retreat is complete disconnection, silence, and hibernation. 

Winter offers the conditions for soft retreats without much effort by us. All we do is abide in the seasonal elements—slowing down when it’s cold, laying low when it’s dark. And winter reminds us of our primal need for an occasional hard retreat. 

Winter retreating is too important to miss. And there’s no need for a high cost.

Winter Die-Off

[Seasons: Winter III]

Everything dies in the winter. But it’s not meaningless death. It’s not senseless suffering. 

Winter die-off is nature’s way of tending to itself. The fallen leaves nourish the tree, the grass gives back to the pasture, and the garden takes a deep breath. 

It’s still true: everything dies. Every year winter teaches me this harsh lesson. Every year I’m reminded that death is never easy and yet it’s not always bad. 

A modern day virtue is the prolonging of life, often well beyond what is sensible and compassionate. Winter loosens our grip on life. Death comes. It must. And there are no amount of times it comes—year after year after year—that it finally loses its sting. 

Winter is when we hold life loosely, allow ourselves to grieve, and not judge endings as ultimately bad.

Snowy Magic

[Seasons: Winter II]

The first snow of the year is particularly delightful. The previous warm months have cleared our memory of its beauty, and the chilly frost of autumn is a tease at best. When the snow returns from its long vacation, it arrives with an agenda: leave no thing unaffected. Everything looks, sounds, feels, and even smells different when blanketed with frozen dust. 

Snow creates a different world out of the one we are so familiar with. It cleans what was dirty, covers the unsightly, and smoothes what was jagged. Nothing is less beautiful after a snow. 

Snow has a magical quality to it. For adults, snow can be an inconvenience; for children, snow is a portal to a new, more magical world. It’s no wonder that children's authors (think: Narnia) have used winter and snow as symbols of different dimensions where imaginative limits are negotiable and real world boundaries are ignored. 

Snow is a winter invitation. 

To behold beauty. 
To hear differently. 
To be creative and youthful. 

Winter is not only frozen stiff; there are moments of delight and magic.

Preparation & Surprise

[Seasons: Winter I]

Winter doesn’t come until January. December feels like a winter month, with the holiday festivities and the cold temperatures, but winter waits nearly two months longer to come. In this way, winter is always a type of seasonal paradox: we wait and prepare for it nearly a half season early, but when it arrives it always surprises us with its harshness. 

We can get our house in order, our lines blown free of water, and the animals prepped for future cold fronts, but it’s always colder and darker than expected. This is true on the farm but also metaphorically. 

There is no "fully preparing" for the winters of life. Even if you begin early, follow the advice of others, and do everything right: winters always have an element of surprise and seem more extreme than predicted. There’s no “winning” winters; they are merely sustained. Winters force a cold, hard break from the past season, a time of struggle for survival, and a reemergence. 

Without the struggle, it wouldn’t be winter. 
Without our preparatory shortcomings, it wouldn’t be winter.  

If you’re in a winter season and it seems unbearable… it is! It wouldn’t be winter otherwise.

Spiritual Seasons

[Seasons: IV]

Seasons are powerful. 

They dictate to us the activities we do, the clothes we wear, the foods we eat (at least they did at one time), and often how we feel (Seasonal Affective Disorder is a thing, you know).  

Eating cantaloupe in shorts and flip flops is a summer activity. Drinking warm tea by the fire after the sun sets at 5pm happens only in the winter. Each of those activities are not isolated one-off experiences. They are part of an entire seasonal matrix of holidays, job demands, and recreational activities. They are also part of a seasonal fabric of sensations, memories, and emotions that are associated with specific times of year. 

The same can be said for the spiritual life. Some of our spiritual journey is “constructed” with the nails and lumber of intentionality and discipline, but much of it happens to us, from a seasonal force far beyond our meager attempts at building. 

Autumn, winter, spring, and summer are spiritual seasons that can be no less influenced than wearing board shorts wards off an impending snow storm. Instead of fighting the seasonal nature of the spiritual life, we would be better served to know and attend to our needs, prepare and dress appropriately, and surround ourselves with others that do the same. 

Spiritual seasons are powerful, and I’d like to look closely at each in the next couple weeks.

Bind Us Together

[Seasons: III]

Seasons are a great metaphor for the cycles of change we all experience. While everyone’s experience differs, we all participate in a life that includes the warm glow of summer and the barren cold of winter, the darkening of autumn and the sprouting promises of spring. 

Seasons connect us. Think of it this way: everyone you meet has experienced a hard winter death (despite their perpetually peppy social media presence). Or, no one is immune to the grey days of autumn. They are universal.

Seasons are something we all share. Seasons are part of being human. They are communal and ought to bind us together.

Blueprint for Creation

[Seasons: II]

When I lived in Hawaii, I was asked most often about two things: surfing and gardening. 

Yes, we surfed a lot. No, it wasn’t easier to grow food their. 

Sure, the weather was on our side, which simply meant that we didn’t have to contend with cold temperatures. Every month was a good time to plant something in the ground. But the weather was also on the side of pests. There is no winter “die-off”. Imagine an aphid that doesn’t contend with the chilly nights in October or the squash beetles that don’t worry about the first frost of November. Without a winter, everyday was suitable for planting… and pests grew Herculean strength. 

Seasons remind us that death is a universal reality. By participating in the birth-death-rebirth cycle we are part of a template written into the DNA of all creation. All life comes to an end, and all death serves new life. (Except for beetles in Hawaii.)

It’s no wonder death and resurrection are such profoundly meaningful concepts. It’s the blueprint for all creation. And for our lives.

Seasonal Framing

[Seasons: I] 

The closer one lives to the land the more seasons frame their lives. In an environment that is air conditioned, always sheltered from the elements, and surrounded by concrete and stucco, the idea of seasons is merely that: an idea. But for those that do chores in the rain, run barefoot in the grass, and move downed trees off the road after an ice storm, the idea of seasons is more than a concept: it’s the “shape” and “rhythm” of the year. 

Air conditioning a room is possible. 
Air conditioning life is a fallacy. 
There is no building from which we can get out of the effects of the weather of life. 
There are no all-weather tires for traveling through hardship. 

Our lives follow the ebb and flow of changing weather—a cycle of seasons that is out of our control and yet we are invited to participate. Insisting on making the seasons do what we want is a recipe for constant frustration. We will eventually give up on life altogether. Partnering with the cycle of seasons, riding its undulating waves, embracing its currents, and harnessing some of its beautiful power sets us up for fulfillment rather frustration.  

Not everyone can live close to the land to learn firsthand the value of framing life by (and not against) seasons. But there is deep wisdom and fulfillment to be experienced the closer we give into the elements of nature.

Barefoot Farming

[Preliminary Thoughts: XIII]

The back-to-the-land hippies of the 60’s and 70’s, for all their eccentric efforts to create communes, alternative economies, and apothecary-based medical centers, were first-wave advocates of important scientific research (without knowing it). 

In all those drum circles and community farms, they were developing a “vaccine” for anxiety. And it had nothing to do with a euphoric trance from dancing and drums or partaking in special herbs. It had everything to do with their feet. And the dirt. 

Mycobacterium vaccae was likely not a conversation topic you had over coffee this morning. It’s a microorganism in soil that reduces stress and anxiety. It’s “administered” through skin contacting the soil. Gardening barefoot and leaving the gloves in the tool shed just might be better for your wellbeing than Prozac. 

This is merely a reminder that there is a lot at stake when choosing your gardening shoes (or choosing to wear no shoes at all). I look forward to reflecting this year on simple yet profoundly meaningful “tools" of the farming trade: everything from gloves and shoes to eye protection, hats, sharpeners and files, kneeling pads, etc. If shoes and depression are correlated, just imagine what we might discover if we look closely at all the other “tools” and “garments” of the farming life.

Religious Potatoes

[Preliminary Thoughts: XII]

When immigrants came to this land, they brought with them thousands of varieties of seeds. The Irish alone brought hundreds of different heirloom seed potatoes. And now there are only a few grown by massive agricultural conglomerates. Let’s be honest, we basically have one potato left: the two-pound, flavorless Russet. (I’m not denying that half a Russet potato, oven-baked, doused with butter, and topped with all manner of toppings is a good meal!)

But was it worth it?

We lost flavor for size and ease of shipment. We lost biodiversity and plant resilience and gained petrochemicals and monocrops.We lost heritage and culture but got bigger bags for $4.99. 

If certain foods are historical prohibited by religion, then clearly food has always been on the religious conscience. Is not my potato scenario a religious issue? What might we learn if we hold religious convictions and our food system together, make them talk to each other, and feast on them at the same time? 

This year of reflecting on farming, food, and spirituality is going to be a blast.

Herb Questions

[Preliminary Thoughts: XI]

Herbs can be decorative. 
Culinary flavoring. 
Healing agents. 
Cultural talking points. 
Teas. 
Domesticated.
Wild. 

I’ve found a direct correlation between the diversity of one’s experience with herbs and openness to new ideas. Not that herbs are revelatory, though they can be, but they float somewhere near the boundaries between medicine, culinary adventure, and folklore. Which is to say, they are barely on the cognitive map of most Americans. 

Basil on a pizza or overgrown rosemary in Grandma’s yard, sure. But rose hip or comfrey are probably not drying on most counters. For the people that do have them hanging on strings above their hearth or waiting in a jar next to their tea kettle… now, I’ve found these people are interested in the diversity the world has to offer. 

What is it that builds our appetite for learning? 
For new ideas? 
For expansion and challenge? 
For alternative medicine? 
For new flavors? 

I’d like to explore some of these (herb) questions this year. I think you’ll find them interesting.