Hibernating: The Season to do Nothing

And that’s still doing something.

I’m popping my head out from under the proverbial wool blanket to say hello. Hope this season is treating you well. It was off to a rocky start for me, but I wonder now if that’s just how I adapt to seasonal change. It takes me by surprise, even when I (mostly) know what to expect. I always trip a little—sometimes more than I’d like—as though I don’t know how to wear socks with boots after months of bare feet in sandals. But each time I find my footing. Some way, somehow. That’s what’s important to remember: I always get back up on my feet. We all do.

Coverlet 1820/25 Source: Art Institute of Chicago

Even though we forget it.

Or,

it feels like we used to get up faster —

that it’s taking much longer this time around.

Or,

getting back up may look different from the last time.

Or,

we’re still falling, wondering if there’s a bottom somewhere among it all.

We eventually get back up. We always do. Really. We do.

The weather has been schizophrenic this past month. Heavy bouts of rain, followed by just enough trolling sunlight to make sure you can’t complain about your lack of vitamin D. The leaves have fallen and returned to the earth; they’ve gone to leaf heaven or is it purgatory? I’m not sure.

As a child, I used to loathe this season when the transition from eternal summer days to shortened bouts of daylight would occur. I’d leave home for school before the sun rose and returned home when it had long disappeared below the horizon. It seemed unfair that the sun was allowed to make these brief appearances into the world, and I was not. I felt abandoned. I didn’t understand what we were supposed to do during this time of darkness.

As someone said to me recently, “It’s the type of weather that makes you feel good about not doing anything.”

I think they meant to say that it’s the type of weather that makes you feel good about doing nothing (aka resting). Our capitalistic society often confuses the two, but they are different things. One still involves doing something, while the other, not so much.

So I’ve been doing nothing lately.

Well,

not exactly.

I’ve been…

waking up a tad later,

learning how my new home adapts to the seasons,

making soup,

catching up on shows I’m years behind,

running more—in the rain—,

drawing Christmas postcards,

reading lots,

eating raclette (think cheese fondue, but with a grill),

and drinking more tea.

Drinking too much tea.

Shutting out the online world to spend more time in the world in front of me.

I’ve done most of these things dressed in multiple layers of clothing or huddled beneath a warm fuzzy blanket to fend off the cold and humidity.

But most importantly: I’ve been writing. Every day. Not to you, but that’s because I’m trying to get the next draft of my manuscript ready for beta readers before the holidays.

The bogeyman and his friends came to town a few weeks ago and gave me a good scare. But we made a deal, and they went away. Unfortunately, this newsletter became collateral damage, among a few other plans. But it’s ok. Things will get done while they’re not looking.

I’m happy to say that the novel is coming along well. Today. For the moment.

I regret saying it out loud now.

Tomorrow is anyone’s guess.

I’m learning ‘tis the life of a writer.

You write anyway.

My friend pointed out that the B-man always seems to appear when I’m close to finishing something, so I expect he will show up again before the end of the year.

Bogeyman and the gang: Be warned.

‘Tis the season.

Not that one. I’m not allowed to listen to Christmas music in my house before the 1st of December. But I see you Mariah, Bing Crosby, and of course, Boney M. Oh, till we meet again!

No, ‘tis the season of what

Katherine May

calls Wintering:

Wintering is a season in the cold. It is a fallow period in life when you’re cut off from the world, feeling rejected, sidelined, blocked from progress, or cast into the role of an outsider.

Perhaps it results from an illness, or a life event such as a bereavement or the birth of a child; perhaps it comes from a humiliation or failure. Perhaps you’re in a period of transition and have temporarily fallen between two worlds.

[...]

However it arrives, wintering is usually involuntary, lonely, and deeply painful.

Yet it’s also inevitable.

[...]

Emotionally, we’re prone to stifling summers and low, dark winters, to sudden drops in temperature, to light and shade.

[...]

We must learn to invite the winter in. We may never choose to winter, but we can choose how.

[...]

Once we stop wishing it were summer, winter can be a glorious season in which the world takes on a sparse beauty [...].”

‘Tis the season to retreat into one’s self.

Deeply and gently. But don’t isolate completely. Like a good bottle of wine, we should appreciate tender thoughts and insights in loving company. Add a bowl of soup, some bread with melted cheese, and a small tumbler of whisky to complete.

Wintering, aka hibernating, aka inner-retreating, might not occur in the fall or winter for you. It can happen in the summer when things slow down if you follow an academic schedule. And while I’ve never heard of hibernation in the springtime, I suppose it’s possible. For when it’s autumn in one hemisphere, it’s spring in the other. When it’s light somewhere, it’s dark elsewhere. The world still turns. These are just seasons.

Things Worth Sharing

• The growing convergence between humans and machines is probably inevitable. But it doesn’t have to be a doomsday dystopia, like Hugo Award-winning author, Becky Chambers has shown us. Her Monk and Robot duology (A Psalm for the Wild-Built and A Prayer for the Crown-Shy) is a cosy delight. I highly recommend it.

  

  Photo: Butterflies & Aliens

• I finally watched the critically acclaimed show, Fleabag, thanks to visitors who didn’t log off their streaming accounts when they left (I owe you one!). It was a brilliant étude of clever dialogue and offbeat screenwriting (this is my excuse for watching TV now.) It reminded me of Aisling Bea’s This Way Up, a show I love and recommend if you enjoy quirky, flawed female characters who ramble in Irish accents.

  

• Hibernating demands a certain type of music. But forget that emo playlist from the 90s, your acoustic indie favourites from the 00s, or anything else that seems sad and a little self-absorbed. Everyone can have a pity party from time to time, but hibernating calls for something more significant. Something that will elevate and expand the spirit. And for that, there is jazz; specifically, tracks without vocals. Some things are just meant to be felt, not said. Revise these jazz classics and then try some East meets West jazz with Yusef Lateef to illuminate the mind.

Hope you have a gentle hibernation this season. Drop me a line, and tell me how it’s going for you.

Happy writing, happy creating.

Yours,

G.G. Law

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