Our theme for the month of March is “light.”
I live in a place that feels some disdain for February. From October through April, a steady hum of negativity underlies the office small talk as people bemoan the dark and the cold. I’ve always felt differently about these winter months, in part because I love skiing more than almost anything, but I think more because I appreciate the quiet dormancy of winter, and of February in particular.
After the gauntlet of December overcommitment and running frantic errands in the seemingly endless night, and after the January pressure of kickstarting a new year, comes February. It comes in the back door and doesn’t ask anything of us. It is the deep breath after a long night, before summer comes sauntering in with her demands for joy and loudness. February is like a permission slip to not see too many people, and certainly not more than a couple of people at a time. It seems like we all silently agree to give each other a little space.
The days themselves are perceptibly longer, with enough time to catch the sunset from the living room instead of missing it at the desk. The world is tilting undeniably towards spring, but isn’t yet awake, and doesn’t yet need tending. February days are right-sized, unlike the never-ending days of summer, so full of parties and commitments and outings and beach days that demand our energy from dawn to a very far-off dusk. February days are just long enough, but not longer than we can manage, and even the sun seems dormant and calm.
The February light that comes through my window is soft and slanted. It brushes over the quiet frozen world like it doesn’t want to intrude. It barely touches the short, brown grass and the reedy shrubs, cut back for the winter. February light is a break in the action, so far from the loud shouts of June sun. February light is like a nap, with a cold breeze coming through a barely open window and making your pillow just the right temperature. February light lets our tired eyes take a break from their squinting, and invites us to look with a soft gaze on the pastel green of frozen yards and salt-grayed asphalt.
I’ve needed a break from squinting in this season. My eyes are tired from being screwed up against the headwinds of an unsustainable pace. I’ve been longing for some time by a window, looking out on a world at rest. I think February was intended to be my sabbath-month, and when I am unable to rest in these twenty-eight days I feel it. Just after we turn the corner into March I celebrate my birthday, and we’re off and running into another year. This one promises big changes that will demand great effort, and I worry that I missed my chance to rest.
But there are days in March and April, and yes, even in June that feel a little like February. The foggy, cloudy days that everyone complains about are just our chance to stop squinting, find a window, and look with open eyes on a world that needn’t always be so busy, nor so bright.
Ansley Kelly (’16) makes her home in Rochester, NY, where she delights in short, sweet summers spent sailing and long winters spent skiing at her favorite mountain. Between outdoor adventures, you can find her buying books more quickly than she can read them and indulging in mid-morning naps. She works for Wegmans Food Markets where she finds purpose and joy in feeding her community and the wider world.
I can’t say I love February, but I do love the perceptibly longer days and the hope that comes with them, and it is easy to see how, for someone whose schedule is as full as yours is, that February could be a welcome Sabbath.
Congrats on your Ski Patrol certification, and our prayers accompany the big changes and opportunities that lie ahead.
I’ve also had an affinity for February, but I am fond of cold and cloud and oddities like an extra day every four years. But it is a good reminder to take those breaks, rest and contemplate and remind ourselves of the beauty in all things, as you do.
Moving reflections, Ansley.
Grateful.
Peace.
When I was growing up, I loved summer and cared very little about winter. During the winter my Mom would keep our house at 76˚ and would always be turning the thermostat up another degree or two. We wore t-shirts and shorts around the house during the winter.
Then I met Joyce, at Edinboro University, Joyce LOVED winter and snow, and I thought that I should at least pretend that I liked winter. I must have been so successful, that I began to like winter, and soon actually loved winter. The more snow, the better!
Well written! You are so descriptive and it brings memories for me of skiing when as a child.