I welcome winter’s gift of repose

Maine is the only place I’ve ever lived where folks spend the summer getting ready for winter: roof repairs, tuning up the snowblower, topping off the oil tank while prices are low, getting the all-important load of firewood in. It all amounts to a beehive of activity that detracts from time taken to enjoy the glories of the warmer months.

Because summer involves so much preparation for the hard months that follow, it can be a breathless ramping-up time that upends one from enjoying a day on the coast, a swim in a remote Maine lake, or a quiet lobster dinner with family and friends. 

Now consider winter: There’s no lawn to mow, no garden to tend, no wood to split. All of those chores have been done. Instead of being a ramping-up time, winter is a locking-down time. In short, winter frees us in all sorts of ways to be present for the wonder of a season that has long been synonymous with Maine.

It’s a fact that winters up here aren’t what they used to be. I once had a neighbor named Earl. An old-timer and a self-made man, he reveled in telling me stories about Maine winters of yore. He did this with a certain panache and forthrightness that suggested he had survived the ice age. I suppose he was not far from the mark, because he backed up his reminiscences with evidence: old black-and-white photographs of monumental snowstorms that piled drifts up to second-floor windows and completely buried cars. 

“Now, those were winters,” he told me.

And he was right. Those were winters. And I’ll never forget what he said as a coda to one of his stories: “A man couldn’t get much done once the snow came.”

So what did he do once the snow came? 

Well, he spent a great deal of time tending home and hearth, where he stoked the wood stove, sat with his wife, made pots of coffee, and read by the fire. 

Winter, in short, gave him pause to hunker down and heave long sighs of contentment now that the heavy lifting of summer had receded to a memory.

As I write these words I occasionally raise my head to glance out the window at the woodpile (stacked), the garden (harvested and turned), the apple tree (picked), the lawn (mowed), and the bicycle shed (newly roofed). 

Sheesh. As I tended to all those warm-weather sinecures, when did I have time to breathe? What happened to all the talk – back in June – of a relaxing summer? 

Some years ago a friend sent me a quote by Socrates that I try to be mindful of: Beware the barrenness of a busy life. I take this to mean that one should not lose sight of the moment while preparing for the future. It’s something I’ve struggled with, I must admit. 

But the counsel of the years has – and I honestly mean this – taught me to look forward to the advent of winter, because I’ve finally learned that it is a slowing-down time, a gift of repose, an opportunity to acknowledge that most of the outdoor work that could be done has been done. 

A friend of mine who lives in the Southeast recently called. In the course of our conversation he celebrated the climate where he lives, which enables him to work outside year-round. “I’m always on the go,” he told me.

That’s nothing that a good dose of winter wouldn’t fix.