I am a huge fan of hoarfrost. I first fell in love with it back in Scotland, where it would turn the countryside into an enchanted frosted fairyland. When you could see it, that is. Hoarfrost often came with freezing fog, which was an experience unto itself. Visibility was reduced to zero, and the cold and damp would seep into your bones so much so that you kept moving for fear that if you stopped, you would freeze in place like an ice sculpture!
We started this week in the Treasure Valley with both fog and hoarfrost - the whole, foggy countryside was encased in a magical coating of shimmering white frosting! The trees were the stars of the show - enchantingly beautiful. I found myself gazing at the trees and shrubs as though I had never seen them before. Truth be told, I had never seen them looking so beautiful and "other-worldly." High marks for Jack Frost - clearly some of his best work.
The fog, however, was less welcome. At first it was ok - quaint - mysterious - almost magical. Like a big gray comforter draped over the valley. By day three, is was less of all of the above, and more like a heavy wet blanket keeping all the inverted air pollution right down at respiratory tract level. And although I am not prone to claustrophobia, I found myself very sympathetic towards those who are. Everything felt very, very "close," and gray. Very gray.
It was on the last day of this fog that I drove the fifty miles on the interstate to Mountain Home. I gave myself extra time because visibility was poor, and it occurred to me that if I couldn't see where I was going, perhaps it was best not to get ahead of myself. About half way to my destination, I realized that this was not half bad advice for living as well as driving. More than once I have found myself in circumstances that were very fog-like, with my perceptual visibility reduced to almost zero, and no clear view of the course ahead. In those circumstances, my first impulse was not to slow down and match speed with visibility, but to barrel along as fast as I could, to clear the fog patch as quickly as possible.
I confess that the outcome of this strategy has included plowing head-long into any number of obstacles that, with reduced speed, could have been avoided. And avoiding life's "crash and burn" opportunities, whenever possible, is very good thing. As is not racing along and ending up in "X" because you couldn't see the signs for "Y" - time is not saved when you end up miles away from your intended destination. Speeding ahead when you can't see where you are going also doesn't save anything when you have to factor in the time (and money) it takes to be pulled out of the ditch. And damn, there are always ditches where you least expect them!
Tonight it is going to snow, and according to the local weather guesstimators, we will get between a dusting to four inches of the stuff. Like a child waiting for a snow day, I keep glancing out the window to see if it has started yet! I love snow, though I confess that with each passing year, I prefer to view it from the warmth and convenience of the in-side of the window. As dusk settles, I will find myself slowing down, centering, and will light a bayberry candle honoring the eve of the winter solstice, letting the candle burn down into the socket - an old (and somewhat superstitious) custom that my great-grandmother learned from her mother, and was passed down until my mother taught it to me. I have few non-neurotic traditions gifted to me from my family, and so I treat this one as the pearl of great price. Accordingly, I don't burn those awful bayberryesque-artificially perfumed-paraffin-stearin-mineral oil-polymer-2% beeswax candles that used to smell like bad perfume mixed with jet fuel (sorry Mom). Never! Instead, I found pure bayberry candles made in Ohio's Amish country, and get three pairs to burn during the holidays. Mom always burned them on Christmas Eve and Christmas night, offering a few highly superstitious reasons for doing this (that had no connection whatsoever with Bethlehem, angels, shepherds, and a baby lying in a manger). It was Mom's best attempt at bringing religion into her favorite secular holiday. Grandma lit bayberry candles on New Year's Eve and New Year's night, and would say the little ditty: "Bayberry candles burned to the socket bring health to the home and wealth to the pocket." It was Grandma's version of buying a lottery ticket.
So I honor and re-interpret Mom's and Grandma's traditions, but could never understand why they missed lighting these beautiful candles for the Solstice! After all, if anything is to be marked and celebrated with candle light, it is the passing of the longest nights, and the slow return of the light.
The snow has started to fall! Light your candle - count your blessings - honor or start (or re-work) a family tradition - feel the darkness around you like that warm, down comforter, and know that tonight and tomorrow may bring the longest nights, but then the tide turns, and the light begins to return. Again.
May you know the blessings of Holy Darkness, and the joy of the return of the Light,
Kim
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