Tomorrow, we bid adieu to the Year of the Rabbit. I would not like to blame such an adorable creature for any unfortunate events, beyond eating my newly planted Carex. But I would like to take a moment and acknowledge that the last year was not great for many people individually, and even worse for many more collectively. As Elmo recently found out, people are hurting. No need to list all the reasons why here. I would rather look ahead. Not because I wish to ignore the realities of the day, but because I would rather hold the aspiration that we can move beyond this current state of things. I maintain hope that this coming year will bring more compassion and understanding to us all.
In the spirit of Always Be Learning and more importantly, Always Admit When You Have Been Mistaken, I have recently learned that Blue Monday is not actually a thing. Blue Monday—the stage name for the third Monday in January—was once rumored to be the most depressing day of the year. This is not only a rumor that I believed, but that I spread around as well. And why wouldn’t I? It seemed logical, in a way, and my lived experience certainly backed up the non-facts more than a few times.
However, Blue Monday turns out to be nothing more than a marketing scheme dreamed up by a travel agent. (Who else.) Well, I was mistaken, and I admit it. Even so, I wonder if we could get some backup data to prove that the fourth Monday in January is generally very, very sad. Give us something, Science! We're counting on you.
The Dickens & The Poetic
It wasn’t the best of Januaries, it wasn’t the worst of Januaries. I might even say, if pressed, that I rather enjoyed this particular January. The arctic blast we experienced in the PNW allowed me the luxury of pretending that I was living in Maine for a few days; I fought my way out of a very long Boggle losing slump, and my Beloved and I finished reading Bleak House, which I am placing directly onto the list of my 20 favorite novels (there’s no way to narrow it down to fewer than that.)
I hadn't read any Dickens since high school. And I certainly had not finished a book over 850 pages in a very long time. Bleak House is the longest book my Beloved and I have read since we started reading books to each other eleven years ago1. If you haven’t read a book out loud, or had one read to you, in a while, I highly recommend finding another adult to read with. Similar to building whatever you want with Legos and lounging in plastic pools, reading aloud is a wonderful way to wile away the hours, no matter how old you are.
When you read aloud to someone, not only do you get to experience the dramatic (or comedic) thrills and disappointments together, but you can often learn something about the other person. What moves them, what touches them, or how upset they can become when a character they care about meets a tragic end.2
Dickens is so damn good, has such a monumental grasp on the breadth of humanity’s glory and folly that we found ourselves laughing and admiring his wit, and many other times crying at how beautifully he described such scenes of despair, reconciliation and honor.
[SPOILER ALERT: I’m going to give away some of the plot points in this novel. Skip to the next paragraph if you’d rather not read it here first.] I cried when Jo died; I cried when Jenny and Liz, the two wives of the abusive bricklayers comfort each other; I cried when Esther finds her dead mother laying on the locked gate of the cemetery where her deceased and recently disgraced lover is buried. One particular chapter had both me and my Beloved in tears, but on separate passages. He, when Esther’s mother reveals who she is, and confesses that she is not worthy of her daughter’s affection because she mistakenly thought Esther was dead all these years; I, when Esther (disfigured from the side-effects of smallpox) is afraid to meet her dearest friend, Ada, for fear of how her transformed appearance will impact Ada’s feelings toward her. Much to her surprise, Esther is met with love and joy—joy that she is alive, has survived her illness; joy that the two of them can be together again after so many months apart. (I am almost crying now, writing about it…)
Thank you, Charles Dickens, for making January all the better, and almost as good as winning a few Boggle matches after a long, cold, muddy stretch of losses that felt like an endless string of years without judgement in a Chancery case.
Now, I really ought not gloat, because the adoring gaze of Victory is not faithful for very long. Right now, she’s looking at me. Tomorrow? Probably not me. Unless you are Magnus Carlsen, winning streaks tend to come and go, just like the endlessly spinning Wheel of Fortune. But, more than ending up on the wrong side of the Boggle score-card, I am most disappointed when I miss a really good word that was right there in front of my face for a full three minutes.
Case in point. These four-to-six letters, all there, waiting for me to see them align perfectly into POET and POETIC forms:
Ok. So, I missed something lovely there on the Boggle board.
On the other hand, while observing micro-seasons 19-24, I noticed quite a few happenings that were new to me. Most notably:
Bald eagles are much more easily spotted in the winter. Hovering, hunting, perching, and gliding, you can easily see several a day. Apparently, winter is when they enjoy the spoils of dying salmon who are returning to the waters in which they were born. As well, they begin their nest-building (or rebuilding) to make room for fluffy gray eaglets to come.
Those little winter wisps of sounds, traveling in and out of branches, so high-pitched, seemingly everywhere in the woods? Those are kinglets.
The span of time from when the salmonberry loses its last leaves to when the following spring’s leaf buds form on the stems is only a few weeks. Not months, as I would have guessed before I started this exercise.
Micro-Seasons Nineteen Through Twenty-Four
December 22nd - January 20th
Nineteen—Nootka rose hips ornament the thickets: Dec 22nd - 26th
Twenty—Kinglets serenade the woods: Dec 27th - 31st
Twenty-One—Cold dew waxes the sword ferns: Jan 1st - 5th
Twenty-Two—King tides flow in: Jan 6th - 10th
Twenty-Three—Eagles hunt and nest in abundance: Jan 11th - 15th
Twenty-Four—Salmonberries drop their last leaves: Jan 16th - 20th
As always, I would love to hear what you noticed, or experienced lately that made you feel just a little bit more connected to this brittle and brilliant world.
-Angela
【HHH】This article has been certified as human-created by Authograph.com
According to my Beloved’s research on the matter, “Bleak House” clocks in around 370,000 words compared to “Moby Dick’s” adorably tiny amount of only 212,000 - give or take a few loose prepositions here and there.
During our reading, there were multiple exclamations that went something like, “Dickens cannot do that!” which is really another way of saying: how dare he be such a skilled writer that I now care this much about the fate of this character! Oh, the Dickens.
Last Sunday I saw for the first time in my life a song thrush, actually, a pair of song thrushes, but the one of them being more shy kept its distance.
On the same day I saw also a (European) robin, a usual encounter and always an exciting one.
I had also a brief interaction with a magpie, a little chit chat of shorts but we soon got lost in translation and she left me for her mate.
And various little flying birds I cannot name. It has been a bird week. I hope for more.