Januweary

That’s what a friend’s grandmother calls this sad post-Christmas season.  I couldn’t agree more.  For the past several years I have looked forward to January as season of self-imposed quietness, of dormancy and rest.  I have required little of myself, and indulged in gentle, thoughtful pursuits that allow me to enjoy the coziness of my own fireside.  What joy, after a season of happy ‘doing’, to give myself the freedom to ‘be’.  To read the book I’ve been casting a longing thought towards; to learn a new handcraft—one that requires bodily stillness and concentration; to nurture my desires for a peaceable life.   When February comes, I’m always ready–refreshed and eager–for projects and productivity.   But it is alright to be fallow from time to time, and I believe that we all need it.  January teaches us that all seasons are not intended to be especially fruitful; its serene sleeping austerity is a necessary element of the blossoming spring and abundant harvest that follow.

Having said all that (and believing in it with all my heart), I don’t mind adding that I’ve never been so sorry to say farewell to Christmas as I have been this year.  The happy upheaval, the comings and goings, the merry reunions and golden hours–they’ve extracted their own sweet levvy on my current moood.  To be quite honest, I really don’t want to think about a fresh new year, or even a quiet month.  I just want it to be Christmas still.  I want to have a daily list of fun projects a mile long.  I want to be tired from making cookies all day, or from hanging garland, or from parties.  I don’t want to be tired because we’re getting up at six again, or because I’ve been taking down Christmas decorations.  Or because I’m blue.  Oh, dear.  It’s nothing short of weariness.

I went on a rampage yesterday after my husband left for the office, sweeping through the rooms like a veritable grinch.  Down came the bright ribbons and garland, the smiling banner of Christmas cards over the kitchen door, the fern-laced compotes of fruit in the dining room.  The only way I could get through it was to think about something else with all my might and main.  It did give me a strange satisfation, however, to have a little bonfire in each room’s fireplace–to cast the dried cedar and fir and holly branches onto a crackling blaze and watch them die in a flame of beauty.  It somehow seemed more respectful than throwing them out into the grey rain that was enshrouding the world.  I watched each small fire with misty eyes and thought about what I would remember this particular holiday for–new kittens; the first homecoming of my sister and her husband; a tableful of the most beautiful children imaginable on Christmas Eve.  And above all, a promise of God’s peace that kept my heart and my mind with a sweetness that defied understanding. 

It’s that very sweetness that makes it so hard for me now, of course.  But I’d not have it any other way.  It’s best so, and I’m very grateful.  But like ‘Anne’, I really don’t want to cheer up.  I’d rather just be miserable for a little while.  

I came across this in the Oxford Book of Carols the other day and thought it quite appropriate to my mood:

The Gooding Carol

Christemas hath made an end, Well-a-day!  Well-a-day!
Which was my dearest friend, more is the pity!
For with an heavy heart must I from thee depart,
To follow plow and cart all the year after. 

It grieves me to the heart, Well-a-day!  Well-a-day!
From my friend to depart, more is the pity!
Christemas, I fear, tis thee that thus forsaketh me:
Yet for one hour, I see, will I be merry.

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