- Hibernate: vb.
1. to pass the winter. 2. to pass the winter in a torpid or dormant state
I have always envied bears, bats, and gophers for their natural instinct to hibernate during the winter. For years, I have been jealous of their ability to say good-bye to family and friends, give up all responsibilities, and leave their problems unresolved come time for their annual retreat. When they disappear for months no one questions their motives, no one wonders how long they will be gone, no one asks when they will return. That is so unfair.
For many years, I have said that I will hibernate for the winter. I usually fail in my mission within a week when I join a basketball league, organize a book club, and pick up a new hobby in a desperate attempt to fight Cabin Fever. This year, however, I have been given a golden opportunity, and although one month in a dusty old house can hardly constitute an entire winter of hibernation, it's the closest I might ever come to the real thing.
Living by myself on the Long Beach Peninsula of southern Washington, I have put forth my best effort to stay inside and remain unseen. I have created lists to keep me occupied and on task: Writing Goals, Personal Goals, People to Write, People to Call, Pies to Bake, Gifts to Make. I have also developed little daily rituals to keep me sane: Yoga in the mornings, a walk to the local book store, bakery, or Ace hardware, a midday run or stroll along the beach, and--rain or shine--I watch the sun set behind the waves from a different vista point each day. But aside from these short but important outings, the other twenty-one and a half hours of the day are spent alone, inside, hibernating.
I have no alarm clock, no answering machine, and no mailbox. I go to sleep when I am tired and I wake up when I am ready: the sun is my alarm clock and the clouds are the Snooze. As a result, my coffee cup is getting a little dusty and power naps are a thing of the past. The phone rings at most, twice a day while I am here and when I am not, it just rings. This afternoon Stan--the "S" in B-S Body Shop--called to see if I, by chance, had a windshield that needed repairing. Most evenings, a friend calls to check up on me. At home, they curse me for not having a cell phone; now they confess their jealousy. "I kinda wish I was living in a tiny town on the coast with only a bike and a pair of legs to get around. It sounds so exotic." I bet Stan would think that was funny.
The soup recipe that I have been meaning to try since last winter tasted wonderful with the bread that I finally got around to baking. My box full of pictures is empty and my three year-old photo albums are now full. The list of story ideas at the end of my journal is now covered in checkmarks and slashes. This morning, after two grueling hours, I wrote my first poem in months. The balls of yarn that have been fading in the attic are starting to resemble something like a sweater. I made flashcards to learn Spanish.
When my mom called the other night to say hello, she asked me what could be so hard about staying inside on a cold day and writing, reading, cooking and sleeping. For my aunt who has arthritis, hibernating is easy. For my sister who just started taking night classes after work, hibernation is a necessity. For my best friend who just had twins, hibernation is a fantasy off limits. But for me, a twenty-something, athletic, outdoorswoman, hibernation feels more like a sentence. Like fluoride at the dentist's office, dog-sitting for my neighbor's leaky poodle, and cleaning the toilet every two weeks, it's good for me: it will make me stronger.
At the end of the month, I might have disappointed a few of the locals for never introducing myself, for staying home during football games, and for choosing not to attend the Lion's annual pancake feed. But for the first time in my life, I am not giving into the pressure of getting involved: no basketball leagues, book clubs, potlucks, cocktail parties, Poker nights to pass the winter painlessly. I am fighting the inner voice begging me to call the women at the Visitor's Center and invite them over for soup since I have about five gallons simmering on the stove. I am ignoring the teen-agers playing soccer on the beach even though they could use another player. I am pretending that I do not know about the contra dance at the Community Center this weekend. I am hibernating.
When I said it out loud to my mom, she told me that I sound like I am in a rehab center not a vacation home. My name is Becky and I am a recovering workaholic.
When bears come out of hibernation they are often thin and very hungry. After crossing "Apple, Pumpkin, and Sweet Potato" off of my "Pies to Bake" list, I am not sure that I'll have this problem. While bats are hibernating, they often appear to be dead because their body temperature drops so low. Since I have the heat cranked and drink three cups of tea a day, I think my temperature is just about normal. When gophers emerge from hibernation, they give birth within a month. Hmmm...unless I have an Immaculate Conception, I can forget about that one. So perhaps I am not truly a creature of hibernation: if someone conducted a study on me, I would fall short of most criteria. Yet when I burn the last log in the fireplace, say good-bye to the last sunset, make a toast to my final poem, and close my laptop for the last time, I think my envy for the bears will be quenched.
Becky Brun is a freelance writer from Portland, Oregon who is spending the month of November in Long Beach, Washington as the 2003 Elisabeth McPherson Award For Female Writers recipient. Her work has been published in Nervy Girl!, the Portland Tribune, and the Willamette Weekly.
©2003 Talking Leaves
Fall/Winter 2003/2004
Volume 13, Numbers 3 & 4
Voices of the Earth: People in Harmony