Friday Ramble - Hibernate

This week's offering hails from the Latin hībernātus, past participle of the verb hībernāre (to spend the winter) and the noun form hiems (snowstorm, winter). Both are related to the Greek cheimá (winter) and Sanskrit hima (cold, frost or snow). All of the above likely originated in the Proto Indo-European (PIE) root forms ghei-, ghi-, and ghimo- meaning snow or winter. Our word is kin to the mightiest mountains on earth, the Himalayas. The name of that range is a combination of the Sanskrit hima (snow) and alaya (abode), thus meaning "the abode of snow" in that language.

Most birds in the northern hemisphere migrate south for the winter, but other species of wildlife go dormant and sleep through the long white season. During this time, their body temperatures, metabolic rates, breathing and heartbeats slow down, and we refer to the process as hibernating or overwintering. Bears exhibit an elegant and impressive physiology as they hibernate through the winter in leaf-strewn dens. Squirrels, prairie dogs, groundhogs, bats and hedgehogs den up when outdoor temperatures fall, sleeping until temperatures rise. Northern frogs, toads, snakes and turtles are masters of the art of hibernation too.

Humans "do" hibernation too, and we do it in various ways. Some of us migrate to warmer climes to escape ice and snow and cold, but most of us simply withdraw from the outside world to warm dens of our own. Our protocols for getting through the long white season are highly personal. We retrieve shawls, sweaters and gloves from cedar chests, accumulate stacks of books, munchies and music. We kindle fires in fireplaces, pull the draperies closed and surround our winter selves with things that are warm, embracing, spicy and redolent of comfort. For me, mugs of tea and a favorite shawl in deep, earthy red are the right stuff.

I buy more cookbooks between now and spring, make endless pots of tea, cauldrons of soup and casseroles. I listen to classical music and good jazz, pose still life camera compositions on tables and window sills, pile up leaning towers of reading material. The books are usually hardcovers - there is something comforting about holding the real thing in one's hands, the cover art, the way the thick creamy paper feels, the smell of the ink, the illustrations and the typefaces. A beautifully designed book is a work of art, and I wish more of such things were published.

I can get totally caught up in the color of a morning cuppa, and I try to resist the temptation to add cinnamon sticks, anise stars and cardamom pods to anything I brew or stir up in the kitchen. From the depths of the pantry, the makings of fiery curries, vindaloos and silky kormas exert a sovereign tug at the senses that is difficult to ignore. It is almost impossible to pass trees, hedgerows and drifts of fallen leaves in the village without getting lost in their golds and reds and bronzes.

Hibernation also means wandering around with a camera and not staying indoors, trying to capture the light of the sun as it touches clouds, contrails and migrating geese, sparks across frost dappled fields, farm buildings and old rail fences. It's a meditative process holding out stillness and tantalizing glimpses of something wild, elusive and elemental. Ice, frost, snow and the paucity of light notwithstanding, it's all good, and something to be treasured. Every view is a wonder and no two images are ever the same, even when they were captured in exactly the same place.