Wintering

Kierkegaard, resolution frenzy, and floating with the seasons

“'The most ludicrous of all ludicrous things, it seems to me, is to be busy in the world, to be a man who is brisk at his meals and brisk at his work… What, after all, do these busy bustlers achieve?”

Søren Kierkegaard, Either/Or: A Fragment of Life

If there were an ugly duckling of the seasons, it’d be winter. Spring has its flowers. Summer has its sun. Fall has its leaves. Winter has silver linings, like snow and the holidays, but generally it’s dark and cold. 

When I lived in NYC, winters were particularly challenging. Even its silver linings were spoiled. The snow rots into ankle-deep sludge; the holidays wither under a stampede of tourists. The best day of the year – the only thing New Yorkers can agree on – is the first day of T-shirt weather after winter. It’s an unspoken holiday – the only day where it’s socially acceptable to smile at strangers.

During those frigid months, winter was an obstacle to be overcome. I’d maintain the same early morning routine despite the darkness outside my window. I’d rally against the 5pm drowsiness around sunset. At night, I'd yearn for the warmth of my apartment each time I ventured out into the city.

I spent this past week outside NYC, visiting my friend Daniel’s farm in Hudson Valley. There were 8 of us. Plus 4 sheep, 33 chickens, and a 9-year-old Australian Cattle Dog named Okie.

Okie, our guide

I arrived restless. The previous week – the last of 2021 – I had succumbed, as I always do, to the end-of-year resolution frenzy. It’s like Black Friday but for the neurotic and ambitious (i.e. my fellow maximizers). 

The frenzy mostly lives online. Annual reflection templates littered my Twitter feed. Goal-setting spreadsheets invaded my email inbox. And, of course, the annual book lists. I’d felt pretty good about my list of 24 books, until a writer I follow shared that she had read 187. 

I diligently consumed each of these categories – clicking the Twitter links, copying the spreadsheets, reading the book descriptions. Eventually my Oura ring would politely nudge me to consider burning a calorie or two, and I’d close my computer feeling restless and motivated. Those feelings lingered; I carried them to the farm with me.

The farm and I were not on the same page. Have you ever been running on a treadmill and accidentally pulled the emergency stopper? That’s what it felt like. My frantic energy was extinguished by the farm’s stillness and ease. The world around me slowed, and forced me to slow down with it.

It rained lightly all week. Fog obscured anything over 50 yards from the house, which gave the farm a dreamlike quality. It also had terrible wifi and few electronics. It was a planet all on its own. 

Most days were the same. I’d wake up around 8, make tea and a bowl of cereal, and then retreat back to bed. I’d prop up some pillows, grab the Kierkegaard bio sitting on the windowsill, crack a window to invite in the breeze, and drift between reading and sleeping until the early afternoon. 

The lines between sleep and wakefulness began to blur around 10am, as a state of deep relaxation set in. The farm and the weather had conspired to force me into rest – the natural state of winter – and my mind and body graciously accepted. 

The day typically started in earnest around 1pm. 

On one afternoon, I emerged from my room to the satisfying smell of warmed bone broth and cooked lentils. Daniel was playing guitar, Okie lying quietly at his feet. Following my nose, I wandered to the stove and lifted the handle on the simmering pot. A whole chicken carcass lay inside, swimming in a pool of fresh broth. Make that 32 chickens. I filled a bowl with the bubbling liquid, lifted it to my mouth with both hands, and sipped slowly. 

The broth washed away any lingering restlessness. I tallied one more silver lining for winter. Snow. Holidays. Existentially satisfying soups.

“Oh my god. This is… This is incredible” I stammered, turning to Daniel. 

“Right?” He grinned. 

After ten years as a vegetarian, Daniel had only recently started eating meat, and he treated the entire process with a reverence and gratitude that I deeply admired. I was reminded how much of my life is experienced through convenient abstractions: that food does not simply spawn shrink-wrapped at the grocery store.

Everyone met up in the kitchen around 2, the sun already starting to fall toward the horizon. Once everyone had eaten, we headed out — 7 of us in high boots and Daniel barefoot — to walk around the farm. Okie took off ahead of us. 

As we approached the chicken coop, I noticed a few of the chickens had escaped from their pen, and Okie was busy herding the last of them back inside. The flock ran over to greet us. Were they expecting lunch? Probably. Were they excited to see us? I chose to imagine they were. 

After a quick hello, we hiked down to the creek at the edge of the property. The ground was invisible, hidden underneath a thick mat of fallen leaves. Amid the fog, the colors of the forest became muted –  everything was gray. The surrounding mist was chalky. The trees and fallen branches were charcoal. The leaves and rocks were somewhere in between. Okie looked up at me, as if saying, Welcome to my world.

On our way back toward the house, Okie jumped in front of me. Caught off guard by her sudden intensity, I tried to shuffle around her, but she mirrored my movements and blocked my way forward. I looked behind me to the rest of the group for help.

“You’re being herded,” Daniel called out, pointing to his left, “The path is over here.” I laughed and shook my head, as Okie escorted me to where Daniel was pointing. I’m no better than the chickens.

As the sun set and the chickens piled into their coop, we followed their cue and headed inside. On the way back, Daniel pointed out that chickens always leave their coop at sunrise and return at sunset, regardless of the season. 

The evenings were similarly relaxing. We’d cook dinner, play guitar, and hang around the living room chatting. I’d head upstairs around nine and replay my morning routine: tea, book, cracked window, sleep. 

As I packed the car and hugged Daniel goodbye, I noticed I felt more relaxed than I had in all of 2021. I mentioned this to him and he smiled back at me, “Now you know why winter is my favorite season.”

Perhaps there is something deeply and primally satisfying about floating along with the seasons, instead of trying to overcome them. 

Thanks for reading (and happy winter),

Mark

Thanks to Cole Feldman, Dan Koslow, Daniel Grauer, Harris Brown, Kayla Falk, and Lyle McKeany for reviewing drafts of this.