It’s raining in Wisconsin. It’s not supposed to rain in the middle of December. We are accustomed to snow—sometimes feet deep—by this time of year. It falls upon all that we see and signals to us that things have changed. Summer, the season of growth and life, is long gone. So too the enjoyably brisk air of fall when, although the landscape is slowly dying before our eyes, we secretly hold onto the notion that anything is possible (maybe if it just got warm enough the trees would bud out again!). But then the snow comes, and things change. We get out the shovels and sleds and skis; some of us rearrange the garage entirely. We change wardrobes. Some change out windows and doors on their houses, some change the tires on their vehicle. Winter constrains us and dictates to us. But it also gives definition to our lives. It tells us what to do, but it frees us from the burden of endless possibility. When it snows overnight, you spend the morning shovelling. When the high temperature for the day is in the single digits, you stay inside and read or play games or make love. When the snow is just right for packing together, you make a snowman with the kids. Some things are non-negotiable.
Snow also tells us to get ready for Christmas. Even more pervasive than the Christmas decorations on display in stores (which have been up too long to notice anyway), the snow tells us that Christmas is coming. But more than that, it provides a bridge within the soul connecting us back via a staggeringly beautiful and consistent backdrop to basically every year in which we have experienced the anticipation and joy of Christmastime before.
I find that I need that bridge. Especially now that I am on the adult side of Christmas. Getting ready for the holiday just isn’t what it used to be. As a kid it was all anticipation. Do you remember that? Anticipation of presents, of course, but also of winter break and parties and concerts and church programs and playing with cousins. Every day of the season seemed to come alive, as if the energy of anticipation that we held for those various moments somehow combined together into a mystical pulse of vitality undergirding our every breath. The magic and mystery of the season was baked into every aspect of life and reinforced again and again as we heard the stories of the season—stories of Santa and Rudolph and Charlie Brown and his friends, and the story of Mary and Joseph and a baby in a manger. And those stories all fit together and made sense somehow, or at least we didn’t bother to question the ways in which they didn’t.
But now it’s different, isn’t it? Now we create the anticipation. Now there is work and life as usual along with the obligation of buying presents for everyone on the list and planning out the parties and programs and travels. Now, if we aren’t careful, the season drains us of energy and takes away vitality. And now, as much as I hate to admit it, the stories don’t always make sense together (more to come on this point in a later post).
But this is why we need connections to the past and a season of anticipation. This is why we need ritual and tradition, putting up the lights and trimming the tree. And this is why, those of us fortunate to live in places that actually resemble the north pole for a portion of the year, this is why we long for—why we need—the snow.
