A January Affair

A January Affair

On January second, I’m fidgety and half-panicked; we had friends over for New Year’s Day dinner, and my house is still fully decorated.

It’s time for January’s long, cold, beautiful blank slate —
but I haven’t had time to erase December.

I carry box after box from the basement storage room, still in PJs and nursing coffee. There’s no time to waste.

I cradle cheap glass bulbs and German handblown ornaments alike in yellowed newspaper, soft as oilcloth, worn over years and years of use. I place nativity figures in their original styrofoam depressions and sandwich the two large pieces together; slide them into the box, shearing off bits of white foam.

I stuff unwieldy garlands into large plastic bins and tuck poinsettia linens and candy-striped tapers in amongst them. I bag up the huge pinecones from my sister’s old farm. {How I wish I had a few bowls more of those beauties now, but she’s long since moved.} I package knick-knicks and linens and glassware and more, until all that’s left are bare tables spread with dust and pine-needled floors.

Two days later, I have fully reclaimed my house. It looks larger, uncluttered, fresh. With the kids at school and the husband at work, the silence is so thick and luscious, I could scrape it up and spoon it on toast like jam.

I light candles. Put on classical. Smile.

You see, January is my month — my birth month and my respite month. Though bitterly cold and draped in ice, though filled with days short and dim, January provides a precious and necessary gift:
She provides us with fallow time.

A fallow field is one a farmer plows, yet purposely leaves uncultivated for one or more seasons so the land can become fertile once again. It’s a practice leading back to ancient times, a necessary rite in order to prevent the soil from becoming depleted of nutrients.

Consider January a season-ordained Sabbath:

There is a time for everything,
and a season for every activity under the heavens …

What if, this January, we allowed ourselves to tuck the furrowed ground of our distracted minds and burdened hearts under a blanket of soft, white snow?

What if we took time to replenish our ravaged reserves by the simple practice of rest?
What if we took time to savor stillness and be quiet?

Of course, we must still go to work. We must still cook meals and fold laundry and go forth into the world.

But, when we do have a patch of time, it seems only right, only fitting, to curl into the sofa with a hot cup of tea and a novel for an hour {or three} on a blustery January day.

It seems only reasonable to become overly attached to fleece throws and nubby sweaters.

It seems perfectly acceptable to spend an entire weekend by the fire, with a hearty stew simmering away, and a stack of board games to play.

In Denmark, they call this practice “hygge.” Danes are experts, weathering long, cold winters with exceptionally short, dark days, and, yet, somehow, they are known as some of the happiest people on the planet.

No doubt they’ve learned to savor what’s warm and cozy and bright and lovely in a harsh season, knowing that it is precisely winter’s bitterness that makes these soothing rituals so meaningful.

NPR writer Claire O’Neill explains hygge, tongue-in-cheek: “From what I gather, it means something like ‘fireplace warmth with candles and family and friends and food, tucked under blankets on a snowy day, cup-of-coffee conversation, scarf-snuggle, squiggly, warm baby love.’ Or something like that.”

But, in all seriousness, hygge is about lit fires and glowing candles, fragrant comfort foods and hot drinks, time spent with loved ones, cuddling in cozy fabrics, and an attitude of gratitude and joy in the simple things.

This January {and winter} more than ever, I’m giving myself permission to be intentional about slowing down and savoring. I might choose an afternoon with a novel over running errands. You may find me snuggling with my springer spaniel and having a second cup of tea instead of starting dinner. And, it is entirely possible I may be binge-watching a BBC Masterpiece series of some kind instead of scouring my countertops —

it might look like rest {and it is} but it’s much more too.

It’s honoring the process of fallow time.