Are we supposed to hibernate? Is there a long restful piece of my soul waiting to be abated? Does it attack my head and make me snap because I do not answer it? The leaves are sleeping, my chickens are fat--nestling close and clucking less. Should I grow fat and hide in the folds of my blankets? I'm half-way there.
I raked the leaves and cleaned the last of summer from my lawn in the soon to be fading sun. I saw all I did not do laid out in the empty spaces of thicket. I meant to clear that brush and make a fenced area, for a reason my brain does not yet know. I meant to. I did not. Summer was time for moving and grieving and playing and growing and gathering and walking until I ached.
I could make and create and clear all autumn and winter, through the death and decay and dismal dripping rain. But my mind won't want to. It will want to stay. Drink tea. Eat scones. Write, edit, write, edit, write. So I guess that's it. That's my hibernation. The time for work of the soul and mind.
But we who can take the time are lucky. Many persons never rest, either their body or mind work through the fog of chilled days and frigid nights. They duck under the rain on the way to that office or to fix that drain. They wonder, through and past and under the gloom, if they were meant to hibernate. And their bones and brains ache to stop and stare and warm next to a roaring blaze.
And I think...yes we are meant to hibernate. Sort of. You were meant to rest. Mind, body and soul need a deep sleep, uninterrupted by the race we put ourselves through. Rats in an never ending maze. We have become too busy to be well. And everyone wants to tell us what we should be doing.
Here's my advice for you: take this autumn, this bleak and chilled winter: rest. Watch snow fall out your window. Sit with a steaming cup in gloved hands under the turning trees. And don't worry, for a time, about what others want you to be.