Winter has been waning here and for perhaps the first time in my life, I am wistfully wishing it would linger. The boys and I had a conversation yesterday about our favorite seasons and what draws us to each of them, in order. In the past my answer was always vehemently summer in first place, but winter is vying for a spot at the top this year. After a winter of fully embracing this season in a whole new way, with a new ritual, I find myself yearning for the comfort of my weeks in routine and in connection with people, a place, and a pattern of engaging that feels deeply primal and beautiful.
This summer I found myself joining a few intrepid women to do long, open water swims across the bay. They were meditative, beautifully connecting as much as they were also phenomenally freeing. Not to mention strengthening and centering. As the summer came to an end and we could no longer swim in the waters of New Hampshire, we decided to try our bodies at cold plunging.
With no experience and limited knowledge, three of us slowly and gradually met together and adjusted our experiences based on each that came before. We met at 7:30 PM, hours after dark and in a New England winter for a brisk walk before walking down to the river to undress on the bank. We decided that swimsuits would be an unnecessary hassle, and so we went in naked except for our knit hats. Eventually we each decided to don wetsuit booties to enhance our experience and allow us to stay in a bit longer.
Over the course of these months we've fine-tuned our practice. We do deep breaths beforehand, releasing and preparing our lungs and body. We hold hands and walk into the river, noticing the changes in the water, the weather, looking upstream and downstream, tracing the skyline with our eyes, taking in the glow of the moon as it reflects on the ripples of the river. We've been called cold immersion doulas and this feels true. We share awes that we've witnessed and experienced, lifting our voices and uniting in songs and rounds, and we remain fully present to the moment and each other.
When our bodies tell us it is time to move out of the water, we return to our towels on the bank. We dress, marveling at the feeling of our clothes upon our tingling backs and legs, and take a few bites of chocolate before crunching our way back up the hill. And back to our homes and lives.
To return again to the river the following week, same time, same place, same ritual.
Winter, you have been a marvel this year.
Ritual
Greetings and hugs,
the familiar car doors slam.
We walk, talking up the road in the night,
taking in the stars, the glow,
watching our breath linger in the air as a cloud,
warmed and anticipating,
we return, gather our belongings,
crunch our boots through the snow,
down to the cabin by the river.
A glance at the river, is there ice today?
Will in need breaking? Oh yes!
A canoe paddle and determination,
the ice cracks and bobs,
a space made for our beings.
We stand in a huddle, the selected poems read
as we tear up and sigh.
Undressing and putting on our booties and knit cap,
wrapping our naked bodies in a towel,
we make our way to the bank.
Deep breaths of release,
we shed our towels,
and unite, hand in hand.
We walk our nakedness to our nethers
and count together before lowering to our necks.
Still hand in hand, we steady our breath,
we notice the treeline, the water,
the river upstream, downstream, the moon
We share awes,
we sing in unison and break into rounds,
we immerse ourselves as long as we can,
we celebrate, we laugh,
we return to our towels on the shore.
Our bodies tingling, our backs, a peppermint stick.
We dress, eat chocolate, and then
crunch our way back up the hill,
with gratitude and awe for sharing
such a wondrous ritual together,
held and found and known
and immersed each week
in the river.
