The Dark Womb of Winter

Last week, a local radio station had a hippie New Age druidic woman to talk about the role of holly and ivy in the ancient pagan celebrations surrounding the winter solstice. She talked about how the ancient people saw the solstice as the beginning of their new year and how they believed in the circles and rhythms of life. She said that they thought of the time around the solstice as the “dark womb of winter”, which would eventually give birth to the new life of spring.

She made it sound all calm and mystical and relaxing. When I go to Newgrange and I think about what went into building it and the scientific and presumably religious aspects of aligning the window box with the dawning sun on the winter solstice, I can’t help but feel abject misery and terror.

I picture this ancient society, who probably felt very beholden to nature and to the seasons, building a structure to appease what must have seemed like a very fickle sun. I imagine the endless nights of winter and reflect on the strength and gumption required to survive in the dark and the cold.

By ancient standards, I am hopelessly spoiled – I have warm clothes, waterproof shoes, indoor plumbing, reliable heating, a comfy bed and a thick feather duvet. And even with all these creature comforts, I still loathe the long, dark, damp nights. Going to work in the cold, shiver-inducing damp darkness and returning home from work in the cold shiver-inducing damp feels like it is grinding down my very soul.

I want to believe in the womb of winter. I want to picture the delightful birth of spring and its budding flowers and baby animals. I want to trust that all this darkness has a purpose. But when I look ahead and see the endless nights of January and February stretched out in front of me, I mostly just want to kick the dark womb of winter’s ass.

Pam Houston wrote a great short story in her collection of autobiographical essays A Little More About Me. I related to her struggles with depression, a condition exacerbated by winter.

She had a little party with a friend where they went out to a creek on her property and celebrated the shortest day of the year by trying to break the ice on the creek with large rocks. This was a cathartic activity and it made her feel like the solstice marked the top of the steep hill. Even though the days lengthen imperceptibly, they would lengthen.

I found the story comforting then but now I can see that it outlines one of the struggles I am having in my adopted homeland. Winter means very specific things to me – it means ice and bitter cold and snow. The short days in Chicago were a drag but they were not as markedly short as they are here. And the cold here is a special sort of cold to which I will devote an entire post soon enough I’m sure.

I just feel a little adrift. It doesn’t feel like Christmas, it just feels like an endless winter, like Groundhog Day only not as funny. I’m sure in time, I will develop my own coping rituals that will be just as cathartic as dropping 20-pounds stones onto ice. My sister-in-law tells me that repetitive motion (like in exercise) releases serotonin. I must ask her if rocking and moaning in a dark corner or banging one’s head against a wall qualify.