So for today just a little light-hearted fun. Because I need a wee bit of a break and I haven’t posted for a while. I hope all of our Winters are going well, and none of them be filled with discontent.
“I said to my soul, be still and wait without hope, for hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love, for love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith, but the faith and the love are all in the waiting. Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought: So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.” T.S. Eliot
“It is not I who create myself, rather I happen to myself.” ~Carl Jung, CW11, Para 391. Posted by Psyche’s Call with Donna May.~~I love this…”…I happen to myself.” Do we not, indeed?
I spent the morning outside digging out the little trees planted last year and now overwhelmed—packed under—by snow. The little things had to be dug out and released from their prisons of ice and blocks of snow. I had thought they would escape on their own and so had waited until I no longer could. Poor babies. At least now they should be happy in the winterscape around them.
The dog thought this was all a grand plan as she ran around me and through the piles of snow. What better than to run through snowdrifts and plunge through the crusted berms? Great stuff, this world. That’s what she says. The cat says it’s best to watch from the bedside window, ensconced in quilts and pillows.
Hygge (pronounced hue-guh not hoo-gah) is a Danish word used when acknowledging a feeling or moment—whether alone or with friends, at home or out, ordinary or extraordinary—as cosy, charming or special.
From my Danish roots, here comes that word that captures the feeling of warmth in a cold but beautiful clime. Ah yes, to visit there, to sit in front of the fireplace, stockinged feet up on the coffee table, books a tumble, hot chocolate in hand.
This is not cold when you have pleasured in a Winter’s Day, when the warmth of snow encircles, when tiny lights match the diamonds in the sun and moon-lit accumulations of snowflakes. That’s when your breath merges with air to make a whispered music. It’s not cold, when you’re not too old to make angels in the snow, when you can dream of other worlds where snowflakes ring like softened chimes.
That’s when someone’s mother makes the porridge with lemon and vanilla so that it, too, sparkles and sings in front of the red-cheeked children, fresh from sledding or skating, embraced by light worn as snow into the self of home.
That’s when Winter is childhood. When Winter is home.