The February Blues

Trigger warning: This post contains notions that might be considered cultural appropriation. If you find that to be the case, please understand my motivation to learn and grown spiritually, morally and artistically through the study of others. If this sounds like an excuse, please educate me.

February in the Northwoods can be tiresome to say the least.  Biting north winds rearrange the landscape of drifted snow.  The frozen earth and grey skies tire soles and souls.  The birds disappear to the low bushes of the deep swamps, crops left standing house unseen deer and those animals that can hibernate do, preferring senselessness to the desolation of winter. It seems all of creation huddles and endures.

And every year this landscape mirrors the mid-winter spirit of the classroom.  Students and teachers alike become more sluggish during this time of year, as if we're saving our energy for the promise of Spring. Enthusiasm is hard to come by, self-motivation is a snow flake, and passion is for hibernating. No one wants to move, lest we need our energy at a later date. If you've spent much time in a Northwoods school, you're familiar with this February tendency, this struggle of the spirit.  

Of course, there are resources for heart and soul. Folks around here have deep traditions from which to draw fortitude. Many traditions of perseverance, character and pride sustain us.  Our European ancestors cleared forests for fields, pulling the stumps of giant white pines and plowing the rocky ground to feed families near and far. Before that, our indigenous ancestors developed deep spiritual reservoirs that honored the brutal and graceful landscape. Our Hmong ancestors swam the mighty Mekong River, fled the genocides of Southeast Asia and withstood the uncertainty of the Thai refugee camps. Need we speak of the courage and character it took for our African ancestors to live within a system that both depended upon them for its very prosperity and identity but, at best, refused to extend the right hand of fellowship or, at worst, denied the human dignity rightful to all.

So we have traditions here in the Northwoods to pull from, to encourage our spirits, to affirm our greater purposes and to bolster our resiliences to seasonal, winter entropy.

Too often I find myself forgetting the rich ancestry that surrounds me on a daily basis. I get so caught up in thinking that my personal challenges and obstacles are so different and unique that there is nothing like them before me.  Then, as I struggle breathing in my mask, I remember the Spanish Flu. When I worry about my children, I remember my grandparents sent their sons and daughters out into the world in cars with friends. When I see the frigid landscape, I remember the resources of fresh water and fuel for heat that sustained the indigenous peoples. When I feel depressed about the weather, I remember the hot summers of a Thai refugee camp and the uncertainty about the future.  When I feel powerless, I remember hearing the blues for the first time, wondering at this artistry invoking my spirit, urging it to dance again. What are we, but the spiritual and genetic extension of those that came before us? 

Lately, we've had sun. The calendar has actually flipped to March since I began this post. And early March has entered like the proverbial lamb: light, vital, giddy, full of promise. The spiritual thaw seems to have begun. We have made it through another winter. A long winter this time. There will likely be another snow, another freeze, but we have what we need. We have a history. And a tradition. We have ancestors that have shown us the way. In this time of challenge, let us live in a way that honors those ancestors. Let us live in a way that honors those who will see us as ancestors.