for love of january

january sunset

photo by Jeffrey Paul

 

My friends think I’m crazy for loving January.

In fairness, my fondness for the month didn’t start until I lived, for a time, in California. It was the rising of a new year and I suddenly found myself staring into the Pacific, longing for a cold slap of Dakota air to keep things around me a little more honest, a little more real.

Then, after four gorgeously redundant Januaries in Hawaii, I finally knew it was time to turn homeward. I needed to live where Mother Nature lets her hair down and gives it a gentle shake now and then.

So here I am. January in South Dakota.

Sometimes, it gets so cold around here the citizens throw their hands in the air and decide to just stay home for the day. School is cancelled. Businesses close. And there it is—the curving of a perfectly fine morning and you find yourself holding a book and a blanket with no particular place to go.

Hello, couch. It’s been a while.

Of course one must, more often than not, march boldly into that glaring whiteness, wisps of danger curling beneath your tires as you squint at the road and accept, if not exactly welcome, the aching chill that haunts your bones the rest of the day.

We pat each other on the back for this, this surviving. No one pats you on the back for enduring January in Hawaii. What would be the point?

These are the mornings we appreciate our cars, our furnaces, the sturdy men and women in Carhartt overalls who repair our cars and our furnaces. These are the days we utter clumsy prayers and mantras and benedictions for the things we normally take for granted.

Bring her home safely. 

Please start, please start, please start. 

Stay warm. Be safe. 

Reality is heightened in January. The air bites and stings and reminds you of the delicacy, the fragility, of human skin. And yet, January, perhaps, is the simplest month of twelve. For one frozen moment, we neither over-plan nor over-schedule, if only because we are stunned and humbled into accepting our own limitations.

Instead, we adapt. We overcome. We check on our neighbors, jumpstart the cars of strangers, pass out extra mittens.

In January, it is enough to survive.

And, of course, we have now also entered the new year—the season for dreamers. Everything is seen afresh—how to eat, how to breathe, how to make the closets airy and sparkling by Easter.

In January we leap from the ledge of optimism, gracefully kneading a smidgen more sunshine out of each day. For we are the people of the warm socks, who stand in knee-deep snow in order to spill birdseed into our backyard feeders. We are January people, loosening our white-knuckle-grip on destiny for the momentary pleasure of imagining a life lived free and light and clean.

Perhaps one can never convince those who hate winter to appreciate how the sunset looks different—sacred, glasslike—at 30 degrees below zero. That’s all right.

A simple life isn’t one where you scream at the world to change its mind.

In January, the only mind worth changing is your own.

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