The thunderstorm that cuts power. The snowfall that stops us in our tracks. The flood in which a family of ducks swims past the words “No Parking” on a metal sign. Weather that disrupts gives me a buzz. I do not mean to minimize the difficulty, expense and even trauma it may cause. Rather, to focus on—and savor—the disruption itself. I love it and now know that I’m not alone.
Katherine May writes that she retains her childhood anticipation of, her enthrallment, with snow (in southern England):
“Try as I might I can’t produce the adult hardness towards the snowfall, full of resentment at the inconvenience. I love the inconvenience the same way I sneakingly love a bad cold: the irresistible disruption to mundane life, forcing you to stop for a while and step outside your normal habits…. Snow creates that quality of awe in the face of a power greater than ours.1
Exactly! When I was a teenager in Alexandria, Virginia, and the snow fell, everything stopped. The world changed. Forget school and homework, let’s go sledding! Where I live now, in the Pacific Northwest, a “snowpocalypse” has the same effect.
As a kid, I was mostly a hanger-on. Whatever the cause—frequent moves, social insecurity, Mean Girl trauma—I was not part of an inner circle, only close to people who were. During one of the occasional deep snowfalls that landed our lives in a different groove, I was along with such a gang, out doing who-knows-what with our woolies on. We ended up at Todd’s house; his mom had made soup—a sort of hot vichyssoise.
There I sat, at a big table full of the cool people, all of us with cold wet feet and slurping smooth potato soup and hot chocolate. I was in hog heaven. In such bliss that the snapping turtle of my nerves pulled back into its shell for a time, and I asked his mom, whom I’d never met before and never saw again as far as I know, for the recipe. When I make it, fond memories of her and that afternoon rise with the steam.
When I was raising my own kids, making jam and canning syrup were satisfying, even a source of joy. Sewing clothes, curtains, and Halloween costumes. Volunteering at school. Taking care of my husband and nurturing our two children. (But not dusting. Nope.) And I wanted to write and I wanted to dance and party and make new friends. Serve at church on committees. Be part of that good life everyone else had. Depression knocked me down at the knees. Fibromyalgia made it hurt almost too much to get up again.
Todd’s mom is one of the people who tailored my ideal of mothering. Another influence was the religious radio broadcast I listened to when my kids were real little. It was a parenting show that came on midday. I listened eagerly, if not desperately, hoping for the magic key that would unlock the happy family I wanted to cook and sew (but not clean) for.
The men, and the occasional woman guest, spoke as the authorities on what I was supposed to be doing. Described the goals, then told us listeners how to get there. Like a recipe. Because kids are like string beans, right? Some longer, some shorter, but all with that pesky string you just have to pull out and then they’ll be delicious. And healthy. Here’s how you do it.
My older child happened to be one who appeared in no parenting book, nor broadcast, nor magazine. All the expert advice backfired and mostly, I blamed myself. One day when I was fixing something in the kitchen with the baby tucked in the high chair, he ran in clamoring for my attention. I yelled at him to be quiet so I could hear the radio and learn how to be a better parent. It was obvious I sucked at it. My own kid couldn’t leave me alone long enough for me to get some instruction.
Then it hit me, in one of those sweet-angel-song moments of insight that come along now and then: Something is backasswards when I’m so caught in the thrall of an esteemed teacher that he matters more than my own son.
I turned off the radio. Let the mess accumulate around my adorable baby in his high chair and knelt down to this precocious child—who still makes me laugh—saying I was sorry, so sorry. Fiercely hoping he had some resilience left.
Parents are obviously not the only ones who set unrealistic expectations for themselves. Katherine May also writes of a Danish woman named Dorte Lyager. (As an aside, the topic was swimming in icy water, which Dorte had found useful in handling her bipolar condition; medications had not helped much.) Dorte, who’d also expected herself to perform great feats of daily life on a nonstop basis, had eventually encountered a doctor who told her not to expect any medication to solve everything. “‘This isn’t about you getting fixed,’ he said. “this is about you living the best life you can with the parameters that you have.’”2
That wisdom resonated powerfully. At different times, a psychiatrist and a fibromyalgia specialist tried to teach me to live the life I was in, not the life I’d imagined for myself. When I’m able, I should do things I love, that feed me. When I’m not, hunker down and find a way for someone else to do the things that are life-sucking (like dusting).
It is dawn in early spring—a rare morning when I could have slept in, but I’m awake too early. I lay in bed until it was time to cut my losses. By its very nature, “trying” to fall asleep foments wakefulness. So I sit nestled under a quilt, watching a flickering flame. Day begins to gain on night.
I’m in the midst of a difficult few months. Medical issues have forced me to ratchet down my life to an even lower activity level, but I’m restless.
Out in the yard, peonies uncurl from the soil, rich with the promise of beauty and fragrance. A friend gifted us with them when she divided her own plant—the very source of the pink peonies that had graced our pandemic wedding. Thrice reimagined, it ultimately took place in the backyard.
The peonies rise and bloom in time for our anniversary each May. This year is our fourth. The internet tells me it’s the flowers-and-fruit anniversary. Let it be peonies.
For our second anniversary, we purchased two more—one red and the other bright white. The farmer taught us the three-year growth pattern of newly planted peonies, as they establish their roots: sleep, creep, leap.
That makes this the year of creep in the peony wisdom cycle. I take a lesson and reimagine myself as a peony in its second year. Little show aboveground. Taking root.
Katherine May. Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times. (New York: Riverhead Books, 2020), p. 164.
Ibid., p. 182.
Yes--and not expect others to be things they are not--or live in ways that are not their lives, if that makes sense.
Loved this, Kelly!