Thus, the Cycle Begins

January 8th: New beginnings

I wake up early, snug in the cocoon of my bed. The gloom of half-hearted sunlight peeps through the window. Not even the sun wants to get out of bed today.

It brings to mind memories of childhood. In a house without double glazed windows Jack Frost decorated the windows, his icy fingers leaving mesmerizing patterns on the glass.

Contemplating the dark

It is dark. I wonder what it must feel like to live in a land where darkness lasts for six whole months and the warmth of the sun is nowhere to be seen.

“I began to palpate the environment of the dark through what was absent in it: the stark, silent air emptied of bird speech, the branches undisturbed by the scuttle of playing squirrels; a dark so dark no shadows moved within it. I came to understand that the dark was like a wild creature and that to confront it directly was to drive it away. The dark asked to be apprehended by becoming like itself, by finding the place in myself that had no form, which was spacious and black as a hidden cave.

If I had been older, I might have found this task daunting... As a child it seemed simple: I closed my eyes and walked willingly into the dark that utterly inhabited my body... Bringing inward-seeking eyes to all my interior rooms, I found the darkness where loneliness lives, and the dark which soothes its burning despair with a cool, stroking hand. I found the dark that brings sleep, and the dark that invites us to recall the lost skill of night vision wherein spirits are made visible... I heard a voice winding out of the dark that propelled me to seek its origins... I followed this voice to its creative source... This small kernel settles like a pomegranate seed within me, becoming a core to which I could fly or flee when centring was sorely needed.”

From Herbal Rituals by Judith Berger which was originally published by St. Martin’s Press (New York, 1998).

Stepping out

I walk to work.

Frost with a Narnian beauty decorates the glistening pathway which leads through the skate park and crosses the railway lines. It sparkles and gleams like diamonds. The air is crisp and clean. Every lungful feels alive.

Even the acoustics are different today. The voices of chattering children on their way to school sound crisper, yet muffled in the frosty air.

Few plants dare raise their heads above the ground icy cold - although a few signs of life rebel against the enforced hibernation of Winter. An evergreen fir tree, the sherbetty yellow flowers of Oregon mountain grape, and a single, fiery marigold - its face upturned towards the dim rays of sun. A stark reminder that within yin, there always remains a shard of yang. From death springs life. Thus, the cycle perpetuates.

The bright colours of the few plants that evade the clutches of Winter’s icy fingers are in stark contrast to the dead, leafless trees, which almost look like the venous system or lungs (if you squint your eyes to look at them.)

The putrid, rotting compost heap also serves as a reminder that from death springs new life. The odour associated with the Water element can be detected in these things. Muddy puddles, rotten leaves, damp wellington boots. These are the smells of Winter.

The beauty of the early twilight is stunning. It will be dark by the time I get back to my warm cosy home. The tiptoe of night - Nature’s prompt to hurry us back indoors. “Hibernate, conserve your energy and rest - it will soon be time to get to work again.”

This recording of a blackbird was made by Richard Margoschis and was sourced from the British Library Sound and Vision blog. The blackbird’s voice always reminds me of playing outdoors as a child. No watch was needed, we always knew it was time to go home for tea when we heard them calling.