The Winter Season

A Practice in Uncertainty | 5 minute read

“So, what did Winter teach you?” asked my curious, thoughtful, and perhaps entirely-concerned husband, Tommy.

He was not inquiring about the blustery past four months, but rather, an eight-month old husky-mix that had entirely stolen my heart. I dubbed her “Winter”, or “Winnie” for short because of, well you guessed it, how much she loved the snow (seems to be a pretty dominant personality trait of those kind, no?)

My brain was quite fuzzy from the sobs that I bemoaned in sync to top breakup hits from the likes of Taylor Swift and Maggie Rogers that I didn’t quite have a well thought-out answer to his query. But after having some time, I think the response has its roots back to about 7 seven years ago to when Tommy and I got married.

Winter patiently awaits a “winter winter chicken dinner”…except it’s just bites of kibble

While I’m sure many people doubted our decision to get married at the ripe old age of 22, I have no doubts that it was the best thing I’ve ever done (the way the wedding went down, maybe a different story—suits in a sweltering Tennessee September? Yike!). But not only did I snag a dime piece (he’s still the only Ten-I-see), but it was the highest return-on-investment I’ve ever had into my “life knowledge bank”. I say this because with Tommy, came his wonderful and loving family, and two of the people I’ve come to look up to the most on this planet: my in-laws. Their smarts are only outdone by their kindness and capacity to love, and from them I have learned so many of life’s great lessons.

The first one being to acknowledge, accept, and embrace the different seasons of our lives. This metaphor has become deeply intertwined with my relationship with uncertainty. I have no idea what the next season will look like, but I constantly in awe of where I am now and think “God, how lucky am I?” To the call of uncertainty we can respond with a grounding in the present. Noticing the little delights around us. When I began letting these delights paint each season, my life became a beautiful mosaic. That’s not to say that anxiety and uncertainty aren’t best friends who tend to knock on my door at the same time, but it has given me a new response to them. “Sure, come in, it looks cold out there, would you like some tea?”

they’re just dropping in to say hi — inspired by @haleydrewthis on Instagram

There was the season of first moving to Oregon.

The season of our cat, Sonny.

The season of being a beginner to all of the activities I love to do now: biking, birding, and backcountry skiing.

The season of graduate school where I was entirely depressed.

The season of quitting grad school where I felt a new lease on life.

The season of DINKWACs (Double Income No Kids With A Coven) that we are currently thoroughly enjoying the best we can.

Some seasons last longer than others. Some are crystal clear in my memory and others are more fuzzy.

Each of these seasons have such a distinct feel when I think about them. Their coloring, their solace, their despair, their joy. I’m so grateful for this concept of seasons because it has shaped how I look back and how I take each season with me. It’s organized a part of my brain and my memories in a way that makes sense and feels whole.

Winter was a short season, but with a clear impact.

From a weekend getaway to McCloud, California a few weeks ago. A season of snow.

The next main lesson that my in-laws taught me is how to protect and care for the ones that we love. I watched my mother-in-law do this for her parents as they experienced dementia, as they grieved the loss of their partners, and every time I talk with her and see her brain working overtime to care for her family. As is the case with dementia, sometimes the people we love don’t have a clear voice and we have to advocate for them. I cannot understate the work that Maureen did to care for those she loved. Dementia is one of the cruelest things we can bear witness to. Maureen not only carried that burden, but put on a brave face for those she was a protector for and their family members.

When we bear witness to the decline of what we love, we have to put in the work. Oftentimes, paralysis can creep in when we don’t know what that work or solution is. Overwhelm, anxiety, uncertainty, they are all seeped into that action paralysis. The only antidote I’ve found is to simply do the next best step and to take that step with love. What can I do, right now, to help this situation that I’m seeing unfold?

And these two ideas culminate for me in what I gained from Winter. See, it’s been hard for me—someone who refers to her three girl cats as a “coven” and believes in water spirits and honors whimsy as a sacred practice—to find magic these days. There are so many things that I love that are under attack. As our planet warms, bird numbers are plummeting at an alarming rate and snowy days are becoming less and less reliable. Knowing this while seeing jackasses run the country and monumentally screw over scientists, conservationists, climate workers, and public land employees has been an exceptionally devastating blow to my dear friend, whimsy. How am I supposed to protect her and that sense of joy? How am I supposed to protect what I love? What can I do?

Now, these questions of course lead to an existential crisis. BUT! Within that crisis, I did get a really good idea. Why don’t I go to the adoption event in town and ask if they need any fosters? Tommy and I aren’t in a place where a dog would work in our lives, particularly for the coven (spoiler alert: they hated it), but we could do something. Finally! An answer to a problem! Too many dogs without homes? I can play a small role in fixing that issue by becoming a foster. I can play my part in protecting vulnerable animals.

Protecting Winter turned out to be so much more than just a simple call to action and response. The first night I had her, her puking woke me up three times throughout the night and when I finally ventured into the kitchen in the morning, it was completely covered in diarrhea. My worry skyrocketed and all I could do was clean and try to make her feel comfortable. I didn’t know if she would be okay. I didn’t know if she would ever find a place to run in the snow all winter long. I didn’t know if she would ever be adopted by a home that could see how special she was. I had no idea what was going to happen.

And that just come with the gig of fostering. We’ve fostered about 8 animals at this point, and when I tell people that, I often get the response of “Oh, I could never do that, I would just end up keeping them.” I admire this response in that I think it shows our great capacity to love and to fall in love with each individual creature. In the same vein, I think fostering always us to fall in love with so many unique animals. It breaks your heart to allow it to grow bigger. It’s a way to be guide for them in their most uncertain step and their most uncertain season. You become partners in trust through that dive into the unknown.

Winter, taking in the new digs, in the exact room where the Great Puking Night occurred.

This sickness ended up being something that just lasted those twelve hours. Not only did it give me a burning sensation in my nostrils from the vast amounts of bleach used, but it also gave me and Winter a bond. “Oh, you’re sick? I’m here, I’ll take care of you. You’re safe here.” It might be my fatal flaw of anthropomorphizing coming into play, but I think Winter picked up on that. She became a shadow-pup, following me wherever I went. Playing together outside in the snow. Showing her love to me with morning cuddles.

In that love, there was trust. In that trust, there was magic. Sometimes we can learn from others’ actions and observe their lessons and understand their importance, but it’s not until we actually practice that lesson and make it a reality that it “clicks” in our brain. Winter brought these lessons into practice. She gave me real-time uncertainty, brought new love into my life, and in return showed me how that love that we give can translate into magic.

After we found out that our “dream home” for Winter was all-in on adopting her, I couldn’t believe it. I kept waiting for a them to back out because surely it was too good to be true. And maybe, partially, because the thought of saying goodbye was a little too much for my heart to bear. But good things require trust, they require patience, and they require some sacrifice.

It will not be possible to get to where we need to go to address the crises threatening what we love without sacrifice. It will require a lot of hard work, a lot of patience, and a whole hell of a lot of love.

We are given no guarantees in this life. Not about our loved ones, our chosen families, our foster dogs, or the places we love. All we can offer is to be their protector, to love them fiercely, and to be a voice for them when they don’t have one. That’s the kind of magic that humans have the capability of. That’s the kind of magic that can make those good things happen.

Because Winter does not last. It’s there and then gone. The lessons we learn, the beauty we see, the insight we gain, we need to take that with us. Each action is a step forward. We might not see the ripples our impact has, but we can always choose to do the next right step.

So, what have you learned from your Winter? And what moves you forward in times of uncertainty?

with love and loss and also much gained,

cassidy