To be as a body in winter
I once read that the whole trick to surviving winter (unsurprisingly) is not freezing to death.
It's true of animals and humans, and it's true of trees.
Like humans, trees retract from their exterior interface as the sun - the impetus of nourishment production - declines.
Unlike humans, trees release the water from their cells that might otherwise freeze and burst, leaving behind a dense syrup-y substance that will grant them resilience through sub-zeros and arctic blasts.
It's a process called, 'hardening', which, again, is not so unlike humans.
I ponder this as I sit on my cushion inside grateful walls sheltering my body from the swirling and howling snow just on the other side of the glass.
And I wonder if trees grow weary of playing dead?
If they, like us, begin to feel restless and edgy even as the sun creeps its way back, but is still not close enough to call forth buds?
Do they too fall into the dreamworld of a barely-remembered summer, with the slightest bit of apprehension that warmth will never be experienced again?
And also for them, that February - though short of days - feels always just a little too long; that year after year it's the same drama: the eyes droop closed, life descends even further within the earth, and we forget once more that our blues always seem to hit about the same time on this point of the circle.
These stone walls are my hardening...
.... my waterless protective shell, and yet I know I will soon head out, if but for a few minutes, to feel the steel chill on my face; to remember I'm alive (and not a tree playing dead); that my own fragile skin can crack and freeze - and yet, though dry, I still celebrate its fluidity and suppleness.
For the moment, though, I close my eyes ....
.... sinking my imagination deep into my bones, and therein I visualize each housing a tiny furnace; a summer past stored in the marrow like hot, glowing embers to be stoked for days such as this.
Once out the door, the metallic air practically a slap -
- the barrier of my skin, my connective tissue, my muscles hold firm for the moment; my warm-blooded body enjoying the contrast of interior and exterior.
Once again, I reach my focus to the depths of my physical structure...
... breathe in the sterile afternoon air; feel it flow into my nose, my throat until it disappears into my own bodily warmth ... yet, all the while, storing up the cold, locking it up tight in the crystalline matrix of bone and memory, to be recalled and released on some future intolerable July evening.
Do I envy the trees for their ability to endure?
To obey the light - a pattern more consistent and true than the prevailing weather; to prepare for the coming inevitable challenges, and then to stand firm in the face of nature's fury?
Sure.
But I, as a human - with greater adaptive abilities than a tree (but far less humility) - can hope to learn from this, even as I celebrate and cultivate our own species' gifts of inner resources, which don't require a hardening off to the world altogether.
