Stopping (briefly) Around the New Year

What do you do to mark the change of seasons, or start of a new year? In past weekly notes, I’ve suggested using these as occasions for longer reflections and big-picture planning, for beginning and ending projects, and for gathering with friends.

I had planned to offer more thoughts on how to make use of this time between the winter solstice and new year. But I’m not in the mood, and I don’t felt like muscling through. And who knows? Maybe you’re also not in the mood to read more ways to optimize your already-full life.

Sometimes we just need to stop. To let go, for now, of all the obligations and promises, and rest.

At least that’s what sounds good to me right now! So instead of more to-dos I offer the company of the poem Robert Frost called “my best bid for remembrance.” In it he describes coming (briefly) to rest on the solstice, “the darkest evening of the year.” He wrote it quickly in 1922, describing it as one of those rare poems that emerged fully formed.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

I’ll point out just two things. The first is that adorable little horse, who has no idea why anyone in their right mind would be stopping on a cold dark night to watch woods fill up with snow…when you could be stabled snugly at home in the village. So far as we know, only humans choose to stop—step out of everyday consciousness and goings on—and with self-awareness look into the dark mysterious depths, where (among other things) we glimpse our mortality. As Frost hints, we might even be in a mood to welcome the big rest of death (the woods are lovely, dark, and deep) as a release from all those obligations (but I have promises to keep).

The second related point is the intrinsic value of stopping and just being. (I love the Buddhist bumper sticker, “Don’t just do something. Sit there.”) It’s all well and good if, in stopping, we notice the contrast between our everyday lives (the village) and the larger natural order (the lovely dark and deep woods); it’s fine if doing so help us gain some much needed perspective; it’s fine too if we’re led to larger reflections on our promises, our place in nature, our looming mortality.

But we can also just stop and take a breath and appreciate our power to appreciate things, by appreciating them! Including that breath you just took—and how extraordinary is this capacity for self-awareness, which can relish the chance to stop by woods on a snowy evening.

Happy new year! Thank you for taking the time to be here.