December Nights

In June, on the other side of the year, we focus west – the vineyard, the wine, the buzz and push of summer life.   And this particular summer, pushing hard to get through a complicated year above water.

In December we focus east, where nights wear thick velvet ear muffs.  

7 pm.  A covid-winter night is a silent night.  Quiet magnifies the song of church bells rising from the valley.  I step out into the frosty air to hear Vesper chimes.  Their prayer of thanks pierces the dark.  I’m glad to live in a place where old customs remind us to stop and think of what is still good in this world.  The river sparkles with village lights.  Bright stars dot the sky.  I wish I were a painter or musician.   Words cannot capture the forest and river exhalations, the woods whispering with falling acorns like soft raindrops, or the calling of owls from the wild northern promontory.

In the middle of the night I open my window.  The fog is so thick the lights of the village are snuffed.  I breathe deeply.  All silence but for the owls.  I imagine furry creatures padding on the rich, oak leaved forest floor, foraging for acorns and worms.   I imagine making a warm bed on the mossy branch of an oak and sleeping in a dark cocoon.  

I doze off dreaming of Noah on a walk across hilltop vineyards.

He throws himself on the ground and pats for me to do the same.   I protest, it is too wet, too muddy.   He pats vehemently.   I lie down on the icy grass and we laugh and kick up our legs and behold the wide dome of the blue sky.   The worries of this year have left me weary.   I need the pause of winter.   I need the mental space to laugh again.  

7 am.  Still dark.   At the edge of the forest stands my favourite tree, one of the very oldest oaks.   The crown is a churning miracle of intelligence, a woven mass of winding limbs, a silhouette of life seeking space and light while also respecting their neighbour’s growth.   I walk into the frosted grass and anchor my bare feet in the earth.  Shock of cold.   I imagine my roots plunging deep into the earth, meeting the roots of the old oak.   Now I understand why the dog sometimes falls asleep on the lawn on a freezing December night.   Earth heat.   My feet are warm. 

Morning bells.   Matins and Lauds.   We made it through the night.   Our small family business made it through this terrible year.    The bells remind me dawn will come. 

Church bells rise from Dordogne Valley – December Night