The condition of winter
On loving the cold months
I used to tell friends that I was going to, if I made it to 40, spend a year in a monastery; reaching that age in September 2022, after two years of a global pandemic, rendered that ambition somewhat moot. Suffice to say there has always been in me a deep attraction to the monastic, the ascetic, the idea of retreat.
That’s the part of me which vibes with winter. I like it when the cold draws in, when the world shifts to a more indoor mood. To be specific, I like the cold out there and me in here. Just as I loved to as a child listen to the rain from my bedroom, I thrill at looking out through glass on snow. The sight of fields and banks of white frozen rain fills me with good cheer; I have holidayed in Russia in January. Twice. I like it when every trip outside is an expedition in bracing weather, acknowledging sympathy for those caught out on the streets with nowhere to go.
There isn’t a part of the year I don’t like mind. I feel just as much a summer child as a spring fan. Still, there’s something about the stillness of these months I resonate with most deeply. These are writer months. My life has been difficult of late, and I like how this cold simplifies the world; sleep, read, run (bracingly) and cook. Monk days, I call them, long introverted spells of absorption in domestic and intellectual pursuits.
I wonder if I could do it – embrace the monastic lifestyle completely. I’ve had a full life, with lots of love and work, so much so that I’d have decades of memory to gorge myself on if I withdrew. That way of life might not feel like such a loss for me. During the pandemic, when we were all told that we’d have to stay at home and occupy ourselves, my family laughed at how much it would suit me. Don’t get me wrong, I’m capable of being very social, until I want to go home that is.
I did go to a monastery once, on the Isle of Wight. It was in a beautiful red brick building. The Abbey was home a small Benedictine order and I stayed for three nights for a nominal rate. The Benedictines believe every guest is a manifestation of Christ and as such they treat visitors well.
The monks had seven sessions of prayer each day, and one day I joined them for every one, never more beautiful than the 5.30 prayers. ‘In the morning,’ they sang and I remember the elongated syllables ringing out, ‘mo-or-ning.’ The monks grew all their own food, which tasted extraordinarily fresh; they drank unusually delicious water with each meal and now and then a glass of red wine. They’d eat in silence, along with their visitors, but sometimes listen to some entertainment as they did; a lecture, say, about the life of Pascal.