The Silence of Life

I received concerned feedback from the village asking why I haven’t written in a long time. There isn’t a special reason, just a long list of excuses—being busy, feeling tired, and lacking inspiration.

Life in the north has been very quiet in recent weeks. The snow blanket covers the landscape and absorbs the few December sounds into its cold embrace. In the mornings, the deep rumble of the snowplow echoes from the road as it clears the freshly fallen snow from the night before. A reindeer bell softly chimes in the blue-tinted forest, like a reminder of the approaching Christmas.

The deep, all-encompassing darkness of November has given way to the magical white light that comes with the snow covering the landscape. The sun now lingers above the forest silhouette across the river for only a fleeting moment, painting the sky in shades of red and gold for a few hours before the hazy blue returns to the sky. But it’s not dark. The blue-gray snow lights up the landscape so much that you don’t even need the headlamp dangling on your forehead while walking through the forest. If the moon manages to peek out from behind the snow-laden clouds, it lights up the surroundings better than the extra LED lights on the front of cars.

With the arrival of the snow, adventures have become less frequent, movement has slowed, and days are focused on keeping the cabin warm, reading books, and knitting. More than once, I’ve had to turn back from a fell adventure, as the deep snow made hiking nearly impossible. The cold, creeping in mysteriously at night, has seeped through the log walls of deserted cabins, chilling me to the bone. Winter isn’t an easy time even for hikers.

Weekend-long adventures have turned into wading through deep snow in the nearby forests and along the riverbank. My mind craves the outdoors and nature, even in the dark. Often, a mood darkened by staying inside brightens and refreshes with the sharp cold, the smell of snowy wind, and the purple-blue glow of the sky.

The river has been frozen for a while now. I’ve cautiously been testing the ice along the shore. So far, it’s holding up well, but according to a neighbor, small streams trickling from the marsh are still making the ice treacherous. I’m eagerly awaiting the morning when I’ll slip on my old wooden skis and glide along the snowy river to the north. Only the deep snow is free, as they say.

Days slowly trickle toward the end of the year. There's only a few hours of daylight left, and evenings feel long as darkness draws a curtain over the landscape right after two in the afternoon. Fortunate is the one who manages to be outside during those few magical hours of light and witness the blend of blues, reds, and yellows merging in the fading light, painting the horizon in pastel brushstrokes. The kaamos time doesn’t truly mean pitch-black darkness around the clock.

Sometimes it's difficult to just stay still and unwind. I have to consciously practice the idea that sometimes it's okay to simply be. To pull the blanket up to my ears in the afternoon if fatigue demands it. To forget the next day's schedule for a while and get lost in a book on the couch. To enjoy the fleeting glimmer of light on the cabin wall or watch the endless pursuit of food by the birds at the feeder. To be in the moment. There is only one at a time—so why waste it?

♥: Sanna