The Thaw
gratitude for the lessons of winter
Spring is nearing. The herring are running here on east Vancouver island and the relief is palpable. This yearly event breaks the winter fast for the animals around me as the multitudes of small silvery fish meet and spawn. Walking my dog on the beach I spy the round opaque herring eggs covering bits of sea weed, roe that will be feasted on in the weeks to come.
In a culture that increasingly is intolerant to waiting, these natural phenomena feel ever more poignant to me. We humans are generally not good at holding tight in the lean times and can fall quickly into a despair at the thought of needs not being met in a timely manner.
The eagles and sea lions know better. They perch high in bare branched trees or bind them selves into floating rafts and await a feast they have survived a winter for.
I wish I could say with certainty, after two decades of spiritual practice, I was confident in the thaw. The one that comes after a winter, cold and long enough to make one forget the feeling of warmth. To stare at the bare tree branches and not lose faith in their innate ability to bud. Some winters last for years, the tenderness of new leaves a distant memory.
As the light continues to lengthen here in the northern hemisphere, I feel my personal winter begin to shift, the one that began the day of my moms diagnosis.
In Lakota culture, winter is an aspect of the direction of the north. Generally, this direction stands for hardships and discomfort. Therefore, north represents the trials people must endure and the cleansing they must undergo.**
In the wheel of life, all directions are sacred. In the cycles of living, death is as natural and important as life. After moving through a series of seemingly never ending hardships, it may seem like spring will never come again, the feeling of hope feels like too big a burden to bear, like retaining our winter coat will keep us safe in the upcoming storms even if it means overheating in the warm rains.
Natural laws kindly remind us the truth of the matter, nothing is permanent. Eventually, the clouds will clear and the sun will pour through the cracks.
I have never been one to have overly positive thinking, one might say I’ve grown into being cautiously optimistic at best, but this thawing is opening me to an aspect of myself that has been honed in the winter fires, a personal sense of my own tenacity and resilience. I don’t expect things to get easier per se, but I do believe in my ability to meet what comes.
That is the gift of the winter, through the hunger and bitter cold we wait, we bow to the earth, we tend our hearts and bodies, we expect nothing and work to survive. We are patient in this season and trust the fierceness of its teaching. Slowly, despite ourselves the ground will shift, the water will rise and the floes of ice around us will break apart. The herring will run, and the feast will begin.
**Adapted from Lakota Life by Ron Zeilinger