The Artist in Winter
I am a child of the second week of December, which means I was actually born in late Autumn. In New York, however, for all practical purposes, it was winter. And although it was cold and dark, my date of birth landed me in exciting proximity to that the other special December birthday, making it such that I have my own window to open on the Advent Calendar!
In those shortened days that preceded my birthday, I used to ply my mother for the story of my own birth. She’d recount the rotten timing of it, and how like a mid-century Madonna—heavy with child—she’d navigated icy streets to do the Christmas shopping.
She’d tell how she went into labor on the Feast of the Immaculate Conception, and how she missed Mass on this Holy Day of Obligation, traveling solo by taxi to the hospital while my father (a "Madman") was at work in the City. Mom missed Mass, and I just missed being called Mary. Good thing, too! I can’t imagine what my life would have been like if I hadn’t lived it as Ellie—unruly and curly like the letters in my name.
When I was 8, my family moved from New York to Georgia. I often felt like something was missing down South, and it took many years before I realized that something was winter—real winter. Today, snowbirds scratch their heads when I tell them we moved to Northern Michigan to have more of winter. And they’re truly mystified when I tell them we have a place in the sun that we choose not to visit when the snow flies.
In Nature, birthing in winter is just about as contrarian as you can get. Lambs and lambs foot alike spring to life in, well, spring-time, when much of Nature gets going. And it makes sense for seeds planted in fertile soil to wait for warmer weather, when survival isn’t such a chore, when you have a decent chance to put down roots under a benevolent sun.
So what is born in the dark of winter, if not Nature? Whoever authored that story about the birthing of the Lamb of God may not have been as ignorant of climatic facts as doubters may claim. For, if winter is a barren time for natural birth, it’s an ideal time for spiritual birth. After all, if the ground is covered with snow, one has to look elsewhere to put down roots. As a child of winter, I was born with roots in spiritual soil. And so in the quiet space of dim, gray days I rekindle my connection with that which nourishes my deepest and most essential Self.
Don’t get me wrong—as a painter of landscapes, I do love sunshine and warmth. Not only does “good” weather make for easier painting, it leads people to my studio to see what I’ve created. But after months of busy work and doors opening, this artist’s soul seeks respite from always keeping an eye out; it wants to look within for a while. And the “bad” weather of winter provides me lots of this!
I once studied with a spiritual teacher who espoused the wisdom: “Consciousness loves contrast.” Yet, it seems we are habituated to seek otherwise. When painting students come to me, eager to spread favorite bright colors on canvas, they bristle at my instruction to first lay down an abstract pattern of the darkest darks. In a picture, you see, it’s not pretty colors, but contrasting values that make for strong composition. A painting that attempts to be all light and no dark, ends up pallid and weak—like something a snowbird might find hanging on the wall of a Florida rental.
As yet another birthday arrives and winter approaches, I remind myself that in a life, as in a painting and in the cycle of the seasons, the only way to truly experience the light is to admit the dark. And though we may shrink from darkness, assigning our fears to the unknown, to value what is seen in the shadows is to gain the most meaningful perspective: that we are whole, complete, yet part of a mysterious and unfolding Bigger Picture.
(This essay was presented as a reading during the Manitou Winds' "Winter Songs & Carols" performances on December 3 at Grace Episcopal Church in Traverse City, MI and on December 9 at The Leelanau School in Glen Arbor, MI.)
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