Tag Archives: Winter Reflections

Little by Little

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“The greatest thing in the world is to know how to belong to oneself.”
—Michel de Montaigne (1533-1592). French pioneer of the personal essay.

I tried to blame it on the boots.

I tried to blame it on the coat.

I tried to blame it on the sweater.

I tried to blame it on the scales.

I even tried to blame it on Thanksgiving and Christmas.

But I knew deep down inside that on those occasions I made conscious choices to eat the rich foods that I served up for Gary and me, and sometimes for our guests. Turkey first, of course—sliced generously, then followed by ham, salty and sweet, and later a rack of lamb brought out because it felt like the season called for something a little special. Deep-dish pecan pie, glossy and heavy with syrup. Deep-dish apple pie, still warm, the kind that sinks slightly when the knife goes in. Golden fruitcake—dense, fragrant, unapologetic—cut thin and then, somehow, not so thin. Banana nut bread—the healthy version, of course—on the counter, always ready for just one more slice. Candy dishes everywhere, each one holding something different: chocolates, caramels, peppermints, specialty candies meant for guests but sampled daily. Taffy apple salad. Orange fluff salad. Cranberry sauce—homemade, of course—because it wouldn’t be the holidays without it. Gravy poured generously, more than once. Sourdough dinner rolls torn open while still warm, butter melting into the crumb. And wine—one bottle opened, then another, because it paired well, because it was already there, and because winter evenings stretch long. And it was good. All of it was good.

One or two overindulgences wouldn’t have been so bad. But what started with Thanksgiving rolled into Christmas, kept going through New Year’s, and here I am after a prolonged pig-out snow-in, blaming my weight on scales, sweaters, coats, and boots.

I know better. This is a repeat of last year and the year before, stretching back to the start of memory. All along my satiated journey, I knew what was happening. I sensed it in my body. I felt it in my clothes. I saw it in the mirror. Eventually, my day of reckoning came when I stepped on the scales, gasped, and sighed,

“Enough, Brent. Enough.”

I could veer off into a litany about all the reasons I overindulged. I have no doubt that you’ve heard them all already. Heard them all.

But I’ll plate up a few reasons anyway. Food is how we mark time. Holidays, snow days, long evenings, the stretch between Thanksgiving and New Year’s—meals become punctuation marks. We don’t just eat; we commemorate. One dinner leads to another, then another, until the season itself seems to demand a full plate.

Then there’s winter. The quiet. The staying in. Food keeps us company. It warms the house, fills the hours, shapes the day. A loaf on the counter, something sweet after supper, a little more than usual because there’s nowhere else to go and nothing much else to do.

None of this is shocking. None of this is new. But here’s the thing. Knowing why doesn’t change the outcome. It only explains how easily awareness can lag behind—until one morning, one glance, one number brings it all into focus.

I could dwell on all of that. But chances are you can already relate—whether in your own “appetite” life or in some other corner. You can relate to areas where you’ve lost an awareness—areas that need attention.  Maybe it’s your perennial garden beds overtaken by weeds. Maybe it’s your inbox overtaken by junk mail. Maybe it’s your personal and spiritual relationships overtaken by inattention. The list of “maybes” goes on and on.

But here’s the good news. We don’t need to rant and rave. We don’t need to blame our metaphorical sweaters, coats, and scales. And we don’t need to blame ourselves.

We only need to notice—and then course-correct.

Little by little.

Too Big to Handle

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“Life is not about waiting for the storm to pass but about learning to dance in the rain.”

—Vivian Greene (American author and motivational speaker who focuses on themes of personal growth, resilience, and embracing life’s challenges.)

Winter settled in early here in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia. Its chill, chillier. Its still, stiller. With night temps below zero and day temps hovering in the teens and twenties, my mountain road became ice layer upon ice layer. Snow still blankets the Great North Mountain Range across the valley, ridgelines shadowed, deep furrows of gray wrinkles defining sharp and rugged terrain lulled into surrender.

As I bring my glance closer to home, I see my wrap-around, snow-covered deck, and in the midst of the floating whiteness is a fire-engine-red hand cart.

I smile as it transports me to last year when my deck, always my above-ground oasis, became a special summer escape. I spent weeks getting down and dirty, scraping off years of deck paint and putting on new primer and new paint. It looked so beautiful that I decided to make it even more special than usual. I married lush greens and artful design, allowing nature and human craftsmanship to merge mid-air. The solid presence of four Adirondack chairs and matching lounger–rich burgundy slats with jet black frames–offered a ready invitation to sit, glide, recline, and be. The rugs defining the sitting areas–bursts of Oriental color and abstract design with blues, pinks, and golds–grounded the whole deck.

I won’t even blush by telling you that my plants last summer stole the show. My tall, stately night-blooming Cereus stretched upward as if trying to touch the sky, while elephant ears fanned outward, their broad, green leaves catching the light just so. The royal purple Musa banana plants, their wide leaves giving off a tropical vibe, reminded me daily that tropical life can flourish for a season, right here on my mountaintop deck. Tucked betwixt and between, smaller pots cradled succulents and geraniums and ferns, almost spilling into the space, their feathery fronds adding softness to the more structured, towering greens. For me, it all felt perfectly placed yet organic, as if my deck had become one with the natural world that surrounds it.

It’s my summer space to unwind, reflect, and listen to the rustle of the breeze, framed by the valley and mountains beyond. It always seems perpetually forever.

Yet, I always know that when fall arrives, my deck morphs into a transition space, caught between seasons. I always move the houseplants indoors, leaving behind scattered soil, stray leaves, and colorful rugs peppered with dirt—a stark contrast to the vibrant life that flourished there just a few days before the march indoors began.

I’ve always loved this parade of plants. I loved it more when I was younger, and my muscles could handle the massive ceramic pots and even larger plants that were a gardener’s eye candy. This past year, the plants seemed lusher, the pots seemed larger, and everything seemed heavier.

I realized that in order to keep the parade moving, I needed a hand cart to help with what had become too big to handle. The cart worked beautifully. Together, we moved the pots so that I could roll up the rugs and ready the deck for its long winter sleep.

When I finished, I left the fire-engine-red hand cart on the deck, right where it made its final lift. I wanted it to stand out, bold and purposeful, a conscious and constant reminder of the options I had when I discovered that the pots and plants on my deck were too big for me to handle.

In that moment, I could have decided that too big to handle was fate’s way of telling me to give up–to stop doing what I’ve spent decades doing; to stop enjoying what I’ve spent decades enjoying. I do not believe the season will ever come when I’ll sigh:

“Enough. I’m done.”

But if that season should arrive, I like to think that I will celebrate it triumphantly with all the notes my feeble gardener’s voice can warble.

Then again, I could have decided that too big to handle was a subtle nudge to scale back, to embrace smaller pots and smaller plants. I know that season may come when I’ll answer the call of the bonsai.

Standing there, however, I realized that too big to handle was not a defeat, but instead, it was an opportunity for me to get the job done differently.

You might be wondering why I didn’t decide to hire someone to move the pots and plants for me. If they’d been in the yard, I might have. To me, the deck is personal, even sacred. It’s me, myself, reaching out to touch the forest beyond and the sky above. The sky and forest reach back, their touch completing the connection. Somehow, the deck is me–one with the universe.

For now–and now is all that matters–I have my fire-engine-red hand cart, my ready ally, poised to see me into a new season and all that might seem too big to handle.