The Garden in December 2022

A series following the 72 British mini-seasons of Nature’s Calendar by Kiera Chapman, Lulah Ellender, Rowan Jaines and Rebecca Warren. 

Dear Readers, this time last year we were under a blanket of snow – I remember heading down to my Friends of Coldfall Wood Christmas dinner over hard-packed ice. This year, it’s rainy and blustery, but what is the same is the shortness of the days, the feeling that we no sooner get up than the light has gone.

In ‘Nature’s Calendar’, Rowan Jaines explains that the period between Samhain (on 31st October/1st November) and the start of the lambing season (Imbolc, usually at the end of January) was known as ‘the black month’ in Celtic languages. Sometimes this was further divided into ‘the Black Month (November), the Black Month before Christmas (December) and the Black Month after Christmas (January). I’m sure you get the general idea.

The Black month was seen as being the opposite of spring. Spring was personified as a noble young knight, who defeats winter and invites everything to wear his livery of green. The Black Month, on the other hand, was seen as the crone’s month. It was a period of waiting rather than doing, of hibernation rather than fecundity. It was the season for the telling of tales, rather than being productive: Jaines suggests that the ‘woman’s work’ of spinning and weaving was culturally taboo during the winter months, and that the ‘hag’ would visit punishment on those who disobeyed. Hence, telling stories was transmogrified into ‘spinning a yarn’, the only kind of yarn that could legitimately be spun.

It may seem strange to many of us, for whom Christmas is one of the busiest times of the year, that the winter has been viewed as a time for being, not doing. Tell that to the poor Mum simultaneously wrapping presents, decorating the tree and organising the Christmas dinner! But actually, my Mother always loved the gap between Christmas and New Year even more than Christmas itself – she would sit on the sofa munching  a turkey sandwich while we all watched a re-run of a James Bond movie, paper hat slightly askew and the prospect of a nap brightening her afternoon. For that strange period from 26th to 31st December, all bets were off – we would read, play Monopoly, listen to music or go for a walk without all the pressure of Christmas Day itself. It was time out of time, a liminal space when the world stood still and work and school still seemed very far away.

From my window I can  see the Christmas tree lights coming on up and down the road. I remember the days when by now I’d be frantically organising  wheelchairs and reclining  chairs and stairlifts for when the parents paid their annual visit. I loved having them with us for Christmas, but there’s no denying the sheer amount of work involved in keeping two frail elderly people happy and in one piece for nearly a week. How I miss it! I would have those days back in a heartbeat, for all that the festive season was the most stressful time of an average year. And yet, I have made my peace with Christmas, five years after my Mum died. I still do some of the things that she loved, but many things have dropped away. It’s more restful now, but no less meaningful. In just over a week, we’ll pass the shortest day, and the year will turn yet again. For now, though, I feel inclined to hunker down  and embrace the darkness.