I had hoped to sit in the car reading my book.

Having just dropped off my 15-year-old at his soccer practice, I couldn’t bring myself to go into the complex itself.

I loved watching him play. He always became so animated, cheering on his teammates, and getting really upset at missed shots; not at himself or others, but just at the misses. It was this other side of him I rarely saw. I wanted to go in, I did, but I couldn’t.

For days I had been having nagging headaches, off and on, made worse by the slightest noises. In the sports complex there would be shouting, cheering, coaches yelling instructions, referees; all those sounds echoing.

I needed silence.

Even in earliest hours of that morning, I was struck by the jet engine sounds my forced air furnace made. When it seemed, the world ought to be peacefully noiseless, there was that air, pushing its way through all the vents.

Once the thermostat reached its set temperature, it shut off for a while.

But then came the hum of the fridge and the trickling water in the fish tank.

The sounds felt so pronounced, so loud. They reverberated through me, shaking my soul.

Silence, I was beginning to think, was very hard to find, if not impossible. True silence was what I was pursuing, the kind in which you can almost hear your own heart beat.

It occurred to me, as I was dropping him off, that I might find some solitude in the hour while he played. I asked him if it might be okay that I sit outside and wait in the car. He said it was fine and ran off.

I parked away from the other cars and turned off the engine. The gentle rolling sound of traffic from the road entered my awareness, but it was faint. Snow began to fall, big flakes that looked like they were waltzing down from the sky, left, right, left, right. I was momentarily mesmerized, smiling at the sight.

I observed that once they landed on the windshield, they instantly melted, cascading down in tiny streams. This lasted only a few minutes while the glass was still warm. After a few melts, the surfaced had cooled off enough to trap the snow flakes in their magnificent shapes. They piled on, one after another, creating a bit of a sound insulting cover. A snow blanket wrapped itself around the car, every window losing its outside view. Within moments I was enveloped by a frosty layer.  

It was so magnificent, to be in the midst of life, somewhat, yet hidden away.

Thankfully, I was still wearing my sunrise walk clothes; three bottom layers, an insulated hat, gloves, a scarf. They kept me warm as the air got colder, the car quickly cooling off without the engine running.

I closed my eyes and inhaled. A deep breath filled my cavity and expanded my lungs. I did it again, and again, slower each time. Once the air was within me, I held it, then exhaled as if it had made it to my toes and needed my help being pushed out. My eyes remained shut the entire time. I felt as though I had disappeared. 

The tension in my body began to ease. I was safely alone.

When I finally opened my eyes, the light inside my snowy cocoon was softly bright. I reclined my seat, grabbed my book, and turned to where my pencil had been wedged, the point at which I stopped last time.

I read without urgency.

It was very quiet.

Some time passed, when my mind drifted back to the beautiful boy running across a field, only a few hundred meters from where I sat. I had wished him good luck and told him I loved him as he jumped out of the car, but even doing that, didn’t lessen the sadness I felt. I wanted to be present to watch him.

I’m sorry I can’t come in today, I added, just before he closed the door.

It’s okay mama, I heard through the window.

I’d been so overwhelmed lately, in this long, long winter. My feelings weren’t just tied to what felt like a particularly frigid and drawn out season. I was wintering, described by author Katherine May as ‘the active acceptance of sadness’. For the first time since I could remember, as opposed to suppressing or avoiding my emotions, I was trying to co-exist with them. It felt different, not easier per se, but like a new opportunity to redefine my relationship with my own complicated past.

Most days, however, I aimed to winter outside of my children’s awareness. Seeing that this was a new and yet untested approach for me, I tried to lean into it out of sight. I meandered through the surfacing feelings, striving to limit their frequency and length of stay. Small doses of sadness, that was what I wanted to experiment with. Try as I might, however, in this, my mid life’s winter, my emotions demanded my attention.

It was in moments like these, that day, sitting in my car unable to watch my son play his favourite sport, that I felt I was failing him. I felt I was falling short for all my kids, too often nowadays drifting to another time and space, even as they wanted and needed me in the present.

I knew it wasn’t helpful to feel this way, to be hard on myself, but I couldn’t stop it. Self-deprecating thoughts rode in on the coattails of other pain and angst. I was already struggling with unresolved traumas; my defences were lowered, to feel further unhappy by my lack of strength to keep the past from swallowing the present came easily.

My fears about not measuring up as a mother, hurt the most.

For a second, I thought about going in, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I had been in there before; I remembered well the thundering sounds. There was no way for me to exist separate from it all, the way I felt I needed to that day, while in such close proximity to others.

What I really needed was to stick my head in the snow and shut out the world.

Every part of me was tired. My eyes betrayed my exhaustion and I was certain others could see the fatigue but were too polite to say anything.

Just keep smiling, just keep smiling, I told myself on the days I couldn’t give in to what I felt. I tucked away my sad expressions and replaced them with joyfulness. I had long used up my reserves of optimism, this behaviour was simply muscle memory.

What would have given away my sinking heart were my slow, laboured movements, if anyone watched long enough to observe them. I was carrying heavy bags over my shoulders, invisible to the eyes, yet apart to anyone else who was languishing.

That one hour in the car, it gave me a chance to micro hibernate. I imagined just how wonderful it would be to sleep through this long, cold loneliness. How pleasant it might feel to stop giving over extra effort just to keep moving, to surrender to the wintering.

Hmm, I thought about the word ‘surrender’. It meant to succumb or be conquered. To lose. None of these felt hopeful. But then it occurred to me that to surrender also means to yield; to give way to another person, or purpose, or moment. I liked that idea, yielding to this awful winter, allowing it to pass by me and not through me.

Yes, that was what I would do, this time around. I would yield.

Yield to the past, like a season which has a beginning and an end. This too would pass, I simply needed to wait it out, and not allow it to overtake me.

This was our second, hmmm, maybe third pandemic winter. Depending on how you looked at it. And we’d still have winter in March, if not into April. So this really was our third-ish pandemic winter. Uuuggh, this sucked. This really sucked.

Suddenly, I heard teenagers yelling bye to each other. The hour had ended. Any moment now and my son would jump back in the car.

I wondered if he had had a good or less good practice. Practice?

Shit.

Was this a practice or a game? Grrr, I couldn’t remember yet I was certain he had told me on the way over. Before I had a chance to chastise myself, the passenger door opened. He was sweaty, smiling ear to ear.

How did it go, I asked enthusiastically.

We won, he happily shared.

Awesome, well done, I matched his energy.

I congratulated him on the win and apologized again for having to sit it out. We drove home chatting about the game, goals, saves, the other team, etc. I listened, I listened intently.