By Euzette Fermilan
“In the depths of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.” ―Albert Camus
I. Invitation
Isn't it magical to go to sleep at night, and next, you wake up to a beautiful, crisp morning? I always marvel at it, especially for someone who grew up in the Philippines, where I could only see winter in books and films.
This year, I intend to unwrap the gifts of winter more mindfully. The sound of snow crunching under my feet. The icy breeze on my face. Teas. The sweet taste of hot chocolates with marshmallows in it. Apricity, the warmth of the sun in winter. The crackling of fire in the fireplace. Smoke from chimneys. The trips to the Christmas Market. Brisky walks. Luscious holiday meals. Catching up with families and friends. The laughter of my toddler playing in the snow...Ah, the gifts are endless and are just in front, waiting for everyone to notice them.
And, oh, the scents of winter! Houses smell of cinnamon, ginger, oven-baked cakes and pastries, turkey, and other winter spices. In our house, as a Filipina, it is incomplete without pancit bihon and adobo. These traditional dishes are special reminders of my Christmas dinners with my family back home. Now, family and friends in Europe enjoy these delicious dishes, too. I also love it when our abode smells like pine, so my husband gifts me a real Christmas tree every December. But only when it is closer to Christmas to ensure the tree remains green even after New Year.
When the Christmas tree withers and more pine needles fall on the floor, it is time to repack all the lights and decorations. Looking outside, God has also packed the sun, of course, along with the moon and stars.
II. Wintering
It is that time of year again when, in solitude, the white silence genuinely allows me to look inward and outward. And to me, wintering is a knife disguised as icicles.
Nine years. That is how long it has been since my mother left this physical plane, and the snow or winter serves as a special reminder. The exquisite tapestry ― houses and trees covered in snow, roads and bridges, and pavements crusted in snow like fields of tiny, white crystals on the loose ― somehow summons the pang of her absence.
Upon experiencing snow for the first time, a flash of childhood memory occurred to me. The joy of catching snowflakes was blurred by tears and longing for her. When I was little, Mom and I occupied ourselves searching photos of urban and rural communities in magazines and newspapers. To be cut and pasted on long bond paper for a school project. Among the many beautiful photographs we found, one truly caught my fancy. I showed it to Mom, saying in Surigaonon, my native language: Nay, tan-awa! Kagana lage! Hamuk snow ug an mga bata lingaw karajaw sila ngduwa-duwa sa snow sanan ngdakop-dakop nan snowflakes! (Mom, look! It is beautiful! There is a lot of snow, and the children enjoy catching snowflakes! After an observing glance at it, my mother replied quite profoundly: She said that someday, when I grew up and studied hard, I would be able to finish school and achieve my dreams in life, even catching snowflakes.
And I did! I have been catching many snowflakes, but only after three years when her throat cancer took her away from us forever.
It does not pierce like tiny needles anymore as much as it did in the past. Perhaps because I have grown so much over the years and become more accepting of anything I have no control over. Or maybe I have wintered enough that being dismal has become essential to my existence. I learned that submitting to my sadness is more healing. I want to take it that way. In my home country, we regard mothers as ilaw ng tahanan, a Tagalog phrase that means light of the household. When Mom died, the world was suddenly devoid of light. Our home ― without her ― turns into a cave full of darkness.
Growing up, my father often counselled my brothers that crying is a weakness. I clearly remember him telling them this during our mom's wake and funeral. It is somehow inculcated in me that showing vulnerability is a sign of weakness. But what life teaches me is the opposite of that. Even sharing my vulnerability on a page where I could be a spectacle of judgements by strangers and loved ones is an act of courage.
My father is typically short on appropriate words to convey what he means. I get it now. I have come to understand that wintering is a personal journey. I choose to let my grief catch up with me rather than mask it like others do.
Recently, I came across a beautiful book entitled Wintering by Katherine May. She says, “Plants and animals don’t fight the winter; they don’t pretend it’s not happening and attempt to carry on living the same lives that they lived in the summer. They prepare. They adapt. They perform extraordinary acts of metamorphosis to get them through. Winter is a time of withdrawing from the world, maximising scant resources, carrying out acts of brutal efficiency and vanishing from sight; but that’s where the transformation occurs. Winter is not the death of the life cycle, but its crucible."
I have never felt more seen. This book is a balm to my soul and a helpful guide to navigate my winter.
Again, I am reminding myself of the profound wisdom of nature and what May also noted in Wintering: that wisdom resides in those who have wintered. Instead of fighting my grief, I will soak in it. I will take winter as it is: a white Christmas, a beautiful wonderland. And when it turns bleak, when the merriments have culminated while the marl skies persist and blanket the whole town, I will give myself full permission to feel the gloom. To ugly cry and withdraw from the world. Descend into the dark. Rest and reflect. Embrace this time to honour my mom and my relationship with her. She is my biggest fan, and I am eternally grateful for her unconditional love. It pains me that she did not live long enough to see many of my dreams come true ― she did not even see me catch a single snowflake.
Anyway, isn't the pine tree outside still green despite the massive snow? I want to live on like the pines, and each snowfall is a mother saying, I’m here, my child, I’m here.
It is through wintering that I find renewed hope and faith. And I intend to live like the pine, to stay green throughout the changing seasons of my life.
III. Finding joy, self-care and other winter recipes
As a mom, I feel guilty spending time doing what I love ― writing. But when I don't, I also resent having not responded to my creativity and desire to learn. Other times, I think I'd better write because whatever I do ― A or B, or C and D, and so on ― people will always have something to say anyway. At least there is an E ― for Euzette in between.
Writing helps me cope with my grief and helps me understand myself better. It allows me to dig deeper, like any mystic or monk meditating on his existence, or our collective existence on earth. Wintertime plays a significant role in that.
Nevertheless, it does not mean I have the luxury of time to do this. In fact, as of writing this paragraph, it is about two o’clock in the morning. It is one of those moments of domestic chaos when your toddler takes a bit longer to fall asleep, and while you are lying down waiting till he drifts to dreamland, you also fall asleep shortly after him. Then, you get awakened at midnight and realise you still need to iron his clothes for the next day at school. But I find joy even in 15 or 20 minutes of writing. Squeezing these few minutes during the day or evening is good enough to nourish my soul. If I cannot write, reading, particularly poetry, is what I turn to both for inspiration and as a form of meditation or therapy.
It is funny how others concur that I am so lucky to live the writer’s life that I have all the time in the world. My kindred sisters and brothers can attest that this is not the case.
Time is elusive, and so is my muse. And by that, my other winter recipes should be here by now, but they have to be next time.
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About the Writer:
Euzette Fermilan is a Filipino born-poet and writer based in UK. When her domestic demand is low, she is found reading or rereading important nothings, writing, or wandering about. You can follow her on Instagram @euzette_and_write.