Handling The January Blues

There is a pur­pose to win­ter. Nature needs a rest. For­tu­nately, in the South, win­ter is a rather brief affair. It has days in the sev­en­ties, and it sel­dom sees snow or any long peri­ods of time below freez­ing. What it has is bar­ren trees. The sight does quite a num­ber on you. They look sad — almost dead. Thank heav­ens for the Mag­no­lias and the pines. They never cave into winter’s gloom.
There are many tac­tics for get­ting through the bleak six weeks ahead. I tend to bury my head in read­ing and add a lit­tle art and humor to the men­tal recipe. Han­dling the bleak inevitable income taxes have become my pri­vate mortician’s game. Col­lect­ing receipts and look­ing over the finan­cial files is like a macabre finan­cial autopsy of the pre­vi­ous year. Those slips of paper are bones — part of the skele­ton of the dead year behind. We lay the last year to rest with a check to the state. It takes an imag­i­na­tion. In my opin­ion, income tax sea­son should be attached to Hal­loween. Instead of April 15, it should Octo­ber 31. Death and taxes go together for some inevitable rea­son.
I miss the ski slopes of the West. They are cheer­ful because of the win­ter. The more snow the bet­ter. Brightly dressed peo­ple of all ages (but mostly under 30) cel­e­brate daily car­ni­vals in honor of ice, snow, slick pieces of wood, and the reli­a­bil­ity of grav­ity. Take the cold­est moun­tains in the coun­try and turn them into all day par­ties. Now that is how you han­dle Jan­u­ary!
From a spir­i­tual point of view, we need to share nature’s nod to tem­po­rary death. Dor­mant has its place. Like empty ware­houses, this reminds us of the nec­es­sary hol­low in our souls. Every­thing can­not be full and bright. Empti­ness is its own desert art. Embrace it, so you can more deeply appre­ci­ate full­ness. Gaze out the win­dow with­out avoid­ing the ster­ile view. What you see or don’t see is also a gift from God.