In the Dark, Light; In the Cold, Warmth

According to the Anglo-Saxon Wheel of the Year, Hallows marks the beginning of winter. I had always thought this to be a more northern phenomenon, as October would frequently be warm and we wouldn’t even begin to see frosts until November at least.

Not so this year. Our First Big Snow hit today, cancelling Halloween celebrations across the valley as we hunkered down and braced for a predicted 10-14” of wet, white slush. I was thankful to have gone in to work at 5am, meaning I would get out “on time” at 2pm, theoretically just in time to beat the storm home.

Three and a half hours later I owe this entry to the Gods-sent snowplow that blazed the trail up the mountain even when the main road was shutting down. Otherwise I’m not sure if or when I’d even have made it home, confronting steep hills or accident-laden highways in every direction.

Nothing like a natural disaster or two to get you back in touch with your region’s geography. Hurricane Irene taught me to look to slopes and ravines—where the water flows. You don’t realize how your entire town is bordered by streams until you are trying desperately to find a crossing that hasn’t been flooded over yet. Or how you’re incredibly lucky your house is situated on a ridge and blessed with drainage on either side to avoid devastating flooding.

This storm has taught me why trees lose their leaves in winter: surface area + sticky snow = disaster. Fall hadn’t even come full force in my town, and the roads were lined with green-leaved trees buckling under the weight or with branches missing—some had even split in half down the middle of the trunk. The river was veiled by a grey fog as I pulled into my neighborhood. A herd of deer crossed the road in between fallen debris, bounding over drifts. They are clearly more used to this than I.

I creep out of my car after enduring a ride more than eight times its usual length only to discover power is already out at home. My brother announces a single remaining cup of coffee left in the French press and I bask in its warmth, realizing that any hot meal tonight is going to require a moderate amount of effort on my part. You don’t realize how much the sacred fire is taken for granted in the modern era until simple conveniences like microwaves, lights, and heat go away. It was all you had left against the cold, the dark, and death, a theme echoed in George R. R. Martin’s Song of Ice and Fire to great effect.

I will be spending tonight in darkness save for the candles I have pilfered from the closet and the sacred flame of transformation of fueland air to light and heat. I will be spending tonight in cold save for the warmth of modern fibers and the companionship of my kin. I will be spending tonight in contemplation of the beauty, the awe, and danger of the dark half of the year. And I will be spending tonight in gratitude for all that the Kindreds have given me to protect myself against it.

There is nothing quite like coming home after being truly afraid you’ll end up stranded in a winter’s storm.