In my phase of grievance, I used to long for winter. I celebrated the arrival of hibernal chill as an excuse to bundle up, to pad my wounded self and protect it from the cruelty of the world. I was filled with a hollow and somewhat desperate pleasure by the sight of trees stripped bare; the tortured beauty of the landscape echoing my own bereavement. Bereft. It is a beautiful word, expressive of sadness in meaning and sound. It forces the mouth into a special movement, so that the utterance of the word is always soft and grave. I used to love that word.
I wished I lived in Vermont, surrounded by undressed trees. The world was too difficult, too wonderful, and my inability to engage in its wonder insupportable. The ceaseless demands of the world I knew ached me, the allocation of my time towards empty tasks draining my infinitesimally small reserve of energy. I wanted to hide in the woods, to seek solace in nature, to find solitude. Forests are infinitely more forgiving than people, after all. I idolized Robert Frost. I understood the depth of his sadness, his comprehension that the human individual is impenetrable. My face was suffused with a terrible sadness, my eyes belying of tragedy. I loved humanity in a way that was consuming, and because it was a love unrequited, it consumed me indeed. If my affection was ever returned, it must have been mutely effused, for I never knew of it. I poured over the more somber of Frost’s poems, held on to the broken notion that if I could only secret myself away in the woods, some literary genius might be born of my pain. I had given up and felt I would end up as he had…gone. And at a very young age.
This is my second winter in Marfa, and I’m still here. And, blessedly, I’m no longer tempted to place a question mark after that statement. I never did make it to the barren woodlands. Instead, I found an arid desert sanctuary. The winter frosts no longer excite me: they just raise my electricity bill and lower my body temperature! I long for the heat of summer. I yearn to throw off my wooly and cumbersome layers, for the hemorrhagic bleeding of my soul stopped long ago, and I’m no longer at risk for terminal bruising. The trees have indeed shed their leaves, but they don’t look naked to me anymore, just stoic. It’s a wonderful world after all.
And for the culinarily devoted, a little recipe to get you through the cold night: Quinoa in Ponzu and Toasted Sesame Oil with Black Sesame Seeds, Nori, and Avocado. This is quite possibly the most soulful dish I know. If you find yourself in an especially reflective mood while languishing in it, don’t be surprised.
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