Stuck in February

February is my least favorite month. It’s halfway between winter and spring, uncomfortably residing in something that’s neither here nor there. In this month of little snow and warm temperatures, it doesn’t feel like winter, but there’s no new growth to indicate it could be spring (which is still two months away here in the mountains). It feels like a gap, like a hump one has to get over. It’s like a river that’s been dammed by sticks; eventually, some force will push the sticks out of the way and the river will start moving again, but right now nothing’s happening. Life seems stuck, unable to move forward or backward.

The creeks are silent under the snow, even as the willows around them are bare. On my walks, I’m stopped by the quiet that encloses the empty cabins. Some days, it feels like the whole world is deserted, that life has left us. Maybe, like everyone else, I have pandemic fever, a yearning for the world to be whole again and to start moving.

The only life I see are the Steller’s jays, and I’m grateful for their raucousness, yelling at each other while they dig into the gutter, looking for something to eat. I’m grateful for the rabbit that eyes me warily when I step outside.  

Aside from the jays, the world is almost unnaturally quiet. Even the tree branches are still. But then I look up at the sky and see gray clouds churning, sending shafts of hopeful rays to the earth. Snow clouds spill over the top of Mount Meeker, spreading their moisture down the giant granite flanks. To the north, patches of blue sky are interwoven with puffy clouds that could almost be spring clouds.

Life is moving, whether we notice or not.  

Comments

[Freda Karpf]

So enjoy your Cabin Journal. Wanted to share something I've been writing about....The time between winter solstice and the spring equinox is known as the imbolic. The between times. All best, freda from @thewildblues

[Jennifer Woodhull]

I've discovered that it's not the seasonal aspect of February that makes it suck. It's always a horrible month, whether in the northern or southern hemisphere, where it's still summer. I used to wonder why, until I learned about dön season. In Tibet, döns are imaginary embodiments of our unfinished business of the past year. They're said to emerge just before the lunar new year, which typically falls in February (the 12th, this year). The döns demand that we tend to whatever we've left undone over the previous year. Since there are reasons why we've left these things undone, we're typically not pleased to be confronted with them. Perhaps this goes as much for our relationship with the weather and environment as with anything else …

[Julene A Bair]

If only it would snow, a lot. That would make February worth waiting through. Same here in California. At the beginning of January, we were just at 52% of average snowpack.

That's my practical response. I enjoyed Freda's and Jennifer's much more intriguing insights. Here's to imbolic döns!

[Kathy Kaiser]

Jennifer, thanks for the explanation of the don season. It seems especially significant this year, after almost a year of being in lockdown and having to face our fears. I will look forward to life easing up a bit in the coming weeks.

[Kathy Kaiser]

Thanks, Freda. I like "the between times." It perfectly sums up this state of limbo.

[Kathy Kaiser]

Julene, we did get snow finally--about a foot in the mountains and maybe six inches down here, which has already melted. I did my first cross-country skiing of the year, and it felt great.