If we of this North refrain from escaping to some or other tropical clime (where coconuts, yes, but every day is the same, except well, monsoons) but if we do stay here through the dark and wet and dark some more and cold and wet (and many of us do stay) well, then we get not tan, not pineapple, but that quiet kind of coming to life that happens when people are indoors long enough together. Hot stews and music, perhaps. Someone brings out the paints and maybe piles and piles of cardboard. Tape. And surely then somebody makes muffins. If we stay. We read long long stories, and we can hear in whispers.
Like the midwinter dreams of bears. You can’t get such dreams in one night—they don’t come to those who jump on airplanes to go stay awake somewhere else. You have to stay for the dark. Then you have two lives: your bright green life, foraging and frolicking, catching salmon in good cold rivers, and your secret dark life, thrumming and musky, ripe with vision and new recipes.
We emerge from the dark so slowly, gripping our pale badges. Shocked by tulips.