a winter blessing
Dear friend,
Today when I awoke the windows in the hall were frozen over, etched with fanciful patterns, the cold incarnated into crystals. The snowfall has slowed in the past several days but the cold has intensified, coaxing out mittens and pink cheeks and more layers.
I just got back home from sledding with a group of kids from our programs—we got a donation that we were told was specifically for buying a bunch of sleds and having a blast with the kids—and there are truly few better ways to feel like a kid again yourself than flying down the neighborhood hill on a little piece of plastic, just almost beyond the edge of control, snow jammed up your pant legs and mittens slowly icing over.
Though it is already February it feels like we are only just now in the thralls of winter here in the valley, and with all of this snow I can’t say I’m sorry for it. It feels just a little bit too magical for me to wish it to end quite yet. I’m also reading Moominland Midwinter which is no doubt contributing to my fantastical vision of it all (I checked out the Romanian translation from the children’s library, it is my first time reading the Moomins, and I am thoroughly delighted).
I understand, however, those who wish that winter would just go away. I’m sure I’ll reach that point too. But in recognition of the fact that for many of us winter will be lingering for a good bit more, I thought I would share this winter blessing I wrote during my first Romanian winter. I wish the same for us now as I did then.
With love,
Xenia
WINTER BLESSING
May you burn candles and log fires and a little bit of food to remind you that things can be good without being perfect.
May you spend time with children. May you tuck babies into knit hats and snowsuits. May you shout-sing carols and make paper crafts with school kids. May you be hit by a snowball or two.
May you fill your belly with warm, sugared drinks in the company of friends. May you have impromptu dance parties and last-minute gatherings.
May you stand in a space that is, to you, holy. May you be filled with the silence and the weight and the beauty. May you feel this sanctuary rebuild itself in the center of your being.
May you feel the cold, really feel it. May it remind you of what you have. May it break your heart a little. And then may you feel warmth, really feel it. May you be astonished by the heat.
May you start a new tradition with people you love. May you start a new tradition all alone. May you step back into old traditions that make you think of your childhood.
May you take in the early darkness without grief. May the long nights make the light sweeter.
May you catch a snowflake on your tongue.
May you warm your body under thick blankets, your hands by radiators, your feet in old slippers.
May you read children’s books. May you listen to old music. May you work with your hands.
May you bake sweet breads and share them with people you don’t really know. May you eat warm soup.
May you bundle up and go on walks. May you return with pink cheeks and full lungs.
May you make your home—whatever that may be—beautiful in some way. May you hang twinkle lights, or pine branches, or icons. May you sweep the floors and put away the dishes.
When you see someone in need, may you give freely and naturally, as if you had no other option, as if sharing what you have was still a rule. May you have the eyes to see those in need.
Blessed are you when you do not fear the winter. Blessed are you still if you do.
Blessed are you when you endure the growing pains of compassion. Blessed are you when you bless the snow and do not curse it. Blessed are you when you look at the gray of the sky and see angels.
Blessed be the bare trees, the hoarfrost, the clouds of our breath in the air.
Blessed be the blue skies when they come. Blessed be the sun, and the stars.
Blessed be the winter. Blessed be the world. Blessed be us all.
(This piece originally appeared on the post calvin on December 10, 2018.)