The Dying of the Light

...Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
                                      -  Dylan Thomas

     I know of those for whom the anticipation of snow piled high brings a childlike glee to the center of their being. They have already begun to liberate skis and snowboards from exile, out of desolate basement corners and seldom visited closets.  They tell tales when gathered with other winter enthusiasts, blowing dust off last year's remembrances of shushing down mountain runs with quizzical names such as "Galloping Goose" and "Flying Squirrel".  Then there are those who prefer a higher octane version of frosty revelling, thundering their way though the forest on snowmobiles, their machines vibrating their riders to a state of frozen bliss.  

     There is nothing in those scenes that appeal to my solar powered heart.  I know that Dylan Thomas was not talking about sunlight and nighttime per se in "Go not gentle into that good night", but he could have been.  Death is foreshadowed in the long Winter nights.  Or, at least, if not permanent death, then a temporary other -  a  psychic hibernation.  Where others skate and slide their way to the Winter Solstice, I trudge.

      It must be admitted to here that I am in mourning, and the seasonal chill blowing through me is amplified by loss.  The last day of this year's outdoor Farmer's Market was last Saturday.  I was there to send it off, to pay it homage and lament its passing.  Gone is my weekly ritual celebration of a community's amity and altruism, the festive crowds.  Gone is my summary entertainment of people watching.  Gone is the  chorus of family farming that urges me along my path.  Gone.
     Before you call 911 on my behalf - I know it's a temporary situation.  I grasp that April will return, carrying with her the things I love.  I get that.  Really.  Still, there is an emotional retreat.

But that's not necessarily all bad, either.  If I am conscious of my state of being I can redirect my energies to intellectually creative and productive endeavors.  There is real planning to do;  figuring out what resources I have and where best to allocate them.  Next Spring there will be chickens and pigs on Lost Road Farm, along with expansion of the apiary.  Perhaps I'll plant a few more apple trees.  I found a resource that offers Sunday workshops in organic farming starting in January.  They're reasonably priced and I don't have to worry about scheduling conflicts.  Immersing myself in the necessary intellectual undertakings of farming, eases my emotional loss and brings the light of hope.

     The garden, too, has put on it's winter face.  While the tomatoes have succumbed to the colder weather, the greens have continued to do well.  My collard greens are larger and thicker now than they were in the warmth of summer.  The one dill plant that went to seed in late summer, is now a miniature forest filling half the raised bed.
     Creative activities such as cooking and brewing also offer recipes to mitigate winter's chill.  In two weeks I bottle my Espresso Oatmeal Stout.  (I'm already contemplating an Imperial Chocolate Stout).  Dishes such as Chile Verde, Chicken and Dumplings, or a Basque Lamb Stew are made more appetizing  with the chilly weather.  Paired with the right homemade brew they make winter almost desirable.
     Yes, there is a place where people gather to share the warmth and good wishes of the season; to share food, drink and conversation with friends and family.  That place is called Hawaii and those people will be wearing T-shirts and shorts.  The weather forecast for Koloa, Kauai is a high of 79 and low of 71.  All week.  And next week.  And the the week after that...Aloha.