December slips away, a time of busyness and reflection, of preparation, of waiting, of darkness and promise. Despite the fact that East Tennessee autumns are not as appealing as Hudson Valley autumns were, this time of year remains my favorite season. December, the culmination of that process of winding down, of preparing for darkness, for hibernation, for pulling inward to the center, is waning. Advent as well, the Christian period of waiting, of preparation, reminding us of the necessity of dark passages in life, of the necessity of rest, necessary sustenance to fuel the light. The solstice occurs tonight.
My new trees were planted Thursday. Even though they currently just look like sticks in a bare landscape, they are filled with promise.
Winter begins.
I too have been slowing down. It strikes me that I am increasingly out of sync with the cultural mania surrounding this season in particular. It is not that I don’t love parties, baking cookies, wrapping gifts, time with friends — all of that is a joy but only in so far as it doesn’t get wrapped up in the tangled threads of obligation.
The first part of December was extraordinarily busy. Intentionally then, I have left the end of the month fairly lightly scheduled. Even so, I have been a flake, missed appointments, cancelled obligations that felt more burden than joy, taken long naps.
But this too is part of this preparatory season. Much of what is important to me had been laid aside. This is my time of burrowing.
I cooked for the first time in weeks, making a Franco-Vietnamese beef stew from Andrea Nguyen, a dish that had once been a winter staple, but which I had temporarily forgotten about in all the hubbub over moving (again and again), construction, and settling. A little baking may have also occurred.
I spent most of Tuesday knitting a sock, the second of a pair, the sock I had ripped out before Thanksgiving, but had not yet begun again. Knitting from the top down, I got through the turn of the heel on Tuesday, perhaps staying up a tad past my preferred bedtime. Wednesday offered less time for knitting, and a little less ability to focus due to lack of sleep, so I finished up the toe early Thursday morning before heading off to the gym. Above is the completed pair, on the library carpet, just after closing the toe and before washing and blocking. The lines of slight laddering, from the divisions of my four double-pointed needles, have settled into the fabric now, and are no longer visible. I have tried other sock knitting techniques, magic loop, two circulars, even tiny little circulars, which I find difficult, but I keep returning to double points.
I wore the socks yesterday with ankle boots and rolled up jeans. I loved the slightly longer length, loved wearing new socks, socks I made. I believe these are my Christmas gift to myself. Or perhaps the gift is actually just this act of settling, of letting myself delve into process and just do whatever it is I am inspired to do.
No promises here. I shall write when the inspiration strikes. In the meantime I hope the waning of the year offers time with family and friends, times of love and warmth, but also times of quiet contemplation and burrowing-in. Our inner selves are the soil that feeds our lives. We need to give them time for nourishment.
