Nature Connection: Surviving The Cold

Winter is always cold here on Cape Cod, though some winters, such as this one, are colder than others. Our proximity to the ocean tinges our cold with a raw, penetrating dampness that is impossible to get out of our boots, our basements, our closets, our bones. This only adds more zing to our winter whining.

In nature, winter is a sweeper, a grim sweeper instead of reaper, though one could argue there’s plenty of reaping as well. Old branches break and fall from trees that have survived decades of abundance and abuse. Last summer’s flowers and leaves coat the ground in a slick blanket of golden, rusty brown, soon to fall apart and melt into the ground but not before they provide food and shelter for the thousands of tiny organisms we cannot see but cannot live without.

Animals and birds that choose to weather the storms and erratic temperatures of winter spend months in survival mode. Some will make it to spring, but many will not. Hunger is one of winter’s favorite songs in the woods and fields. It hums through the days and nights, a not so silent reminder that life is at stake every minute of every day. The rabbits and the foxes hear the hum, no doubt, but they are busy singing their own songs, the songs of survival that are at once plaintive and jubilant, depending on the moment.

People are complaining about rabbits and deer browsing plants and trees they’ve never browsed before this winter. They’re hungry, starving even. We can spare a few roses, a hydrangea, the branches of a young dogwood, I think. These simple offerings can be the difference between life and death. That curtain between living and dying is flimsy every day, but especially in winter when it feels as fragile as thin ice on a puddle on a frosty morning.

Like millions of others, I followed the Buddhist monks from Texas online as they walked from Texas to Washington, D.C. one step at a time. They walked for peace and never wavered from their mission. They walked barefoot much of the way, through rain, sleet and snow. They got cold, tired, bruised and blistered and yet they smiled. It became clear that the monks maintained an equilibrium throughout that was enviable, though of course envy would be totally against their intention, which was just to be in peace. 

In the midst of all the turmoil and distress of the daily news, they walked on, sharing their peace selflessly. I feel humbled by their example and will try to hold their lesson close to my heart each day as the news almost breaks my spirit or I find signs that some poor creature has met its end or a tree now lies on the ground instead of reaching for the sky.

Nature reminds us daily that there is a much larger life out there in the wild. Humans have battled nature for much of our existence, and what has it brought us but a degradation of our environment, despair and disagreements that become senseless, excruciating wars?

There’s a hawk that lives in our neighborhood. There’s probably one in yours as well. Hawks get a lot of bad press. They are relentless hunters, but it is good to remember that they have to be. In order to survive, they must eat. In order to eat, they must kill. Hawks, unlike humans, don’t kill for fun. They eat what they kill, often right on the spot. This is difficult to watch in our sanitized world where our food comes wrapped in plastic, far from our own backyards. As I recently watched our neighborhood hawk hunt and kill a mourning dove, I felt sad for the dove, but also glad for the hawk. Many hawks don’t make it through tough winters.

Every day now I find myself noting the expansion of the light. The sun is a little higher in our sky and appears earlier each day. The end of the day is also stretching out longer, and I find myself looking at seed catalogs and thinking about what I will attempt to grow this year. It is a time when winter and spring are beginning to mingle a bit, and every time the song sparrow squeaks out a few lines of his spring song my heart jumps a little with what I can only call joy. 

Joy, like sorrow, is a birthright, part of being a human. Many cultures openly celebrate both, and the older I get, the more I can appreciate that.

Winter reminds us that even as summer ends and gives up her ghost to fall and winter, winter offers the hope of spring. It won’t be long now before the skunk cabbage pokes up its purple heads in the soggy swamplands of a winter thaw. Snowdrops will bloom and the red-winged blackbirds will arrive. Snow and ice will be behind us, and the world will be warm and full of life. We just have to get through the muddy mess ahead.

Over the years I’ve been blessed to work with several wonderful editors and publishers, but I’d like to note here the gratitude I have for Hank Hyora, who brought me to the Cape Cod Chronicle as a columnist about eight years ago. He was always kind and supportive of me and my work, and although I didn’t know him nearly as well as the on-site staff of the paper, I wanted to add my words of appreciation to theirs. He was a good man and the whole community will miss him and his dedication to good local journalism. 

Peace to all.