It’s (not) the most wonderful time of the year
Oh, the October deep freeze. As Albertans you’d think we would be used to it by now, but somehow every year we all feel the communal ache deep in our souls when that first snowflake hits the ground. Every autumn we trick ourselves into thinking, “This year might be different.” Maybe we’ll get all get enough of fall with the oversized camel coats and pumpkin-flavoured-everything, and maybe for once we’ll be ready when winter hits. But it always feels too soon.
I find myself racing with time in so many ways. The short sunlight hours bring a sense of urgency to the day’s tasks, and series of holidays that anchor our schedules keep us looking forward to the next long weekend, only to realise how quickly the year has come to an end. Usually time only feels fleeting when we’re having fun; why, then, do the weeks between October and December feel as ephemeral as a snowflake disappearing on warm human skin?
This year though, the pretty white stuff on the ground instills a much greater sense of fear in me than usual. As we bundle up in warmer versions of the sweats and hoodies we’ve been wearing for the last seven months, I’m scared we’re locking ourselves into an isolation that goes deeper than public health. I know that as we shut our doors on winter, we are welcoming even colder drafts in our homes of loneliness, reclusiveness, individuation and a total loss of the community we have been working so hard to build. In the months of frigid cold it becomes so easy to make excuses not to leave our homes, even for socially distanced events or opportunities. In past years it was already difficult to layer on the parkas and scarves even when the incentive was a buzzing Christmas market filled with friends and holiday treats…
In my field, I already see the direct mental health impacts of this deterioration in our social fabric; my fear is that over the course of the next few months, we integrate this culture of isolation to the point that we stop looking for connection. Straight out of a Black Mirror episode, I see us becoming a population who just get used to obtaining any and all of our human interaction through screens. And when the elements make this already challenging time even more difficult, in addition to rising infection rates, it’s understandable why.
These ramblings–driven by desperate attempts to feel the warmth of human connection as we head into this new season, conflicted with the urge to succumb to blankets and Netflix on the couch, and fuelled by cup after cup of coffee with the hope of kindling some motivation and energy while I stare into this whiteout–may be lacking the coherency I usually aim for, but I forgive myself given the blanket of dread and numbness that’s overcoming me right now. Maybe I’m making it out to be worse than it is–in fact, I hope I am–but I definitely worry about what a COVID winter will look like. What that means for our friendships, our community, and our general sense of well-being. It’s been a long seven months. It looks like it’s gonna be at least a few more.