On Winter

In this issue of Field Notes, Volunteer Aparna Sivasankar writes about how her perspective on winter has changed this year on Hampstead Heath.

I spent my first two years in London terrified of winter, of colourless skies, cold light and chilling winds. Winter seemed to signify lost time, wasted months spent trying to warm up and keep my head above murky waters of seasonal depression.

Christmas is usually the time when I make my way back to India, my fear at its peak, to shore up on sunlight and family. And in January and February, I spent short days and long weekend nights in meeting friends, going on short trips, escaping whenever, wherever and to whoever I could. But this year, with a raging pandemic, the spectre of lockdown and unsettling uncertainty, the one thing I could rely on was the Heath.

Seeing the Heath settle into winter has been such a profound blessing.

I’ve learned to see the winter in fresh colours and music, and to wait and watch and be present for slow moments of joy. In learning the Heath in winter, I’ve learned to love winter itself.

I’ve learned that winter is green, red and crystalline.

So many shades of green: the green of grass; the dark green of pine needles, holly and yew; the pale green of lichen; the glowing green moss.

Bright splashes of red berries in holly, hawthorn, rosehip, rowan. And the dark reds and purples of buds on beech, hazel, willow and cherry, readying themselves for spring. So much change and churn just under the surface, there for all who want to see. There is beauty even in the rusting leaves of bramble on the turn. to recycle the dead matter?

Crystalline hoar frost, milky fog, snowdrops and the frosted tips of magnolia buds waiting patiently before Kenwood. Splashes of yellow on gorse. Drops on sunlight captured on dew.  

The sounds of winter are beautiful. Crisp morning air sharpens and amplifies sound, contracting distance, carrying bird song from every direction.

On still mornings every step is a note of joy: the crunch of leaves, the crackle of frost, even (as much as I might enjoy complaining about it) the squish, splash and swoosh of boots slipping and sliding on mud.  

In a year that has saddled many of us with painful memories, winter on the Heath gave me magic to lighten the load. Like perfect mornings in November, with frost and sunlight, a million crystals scattered over the Heath. 

And, foggy mornings in December, cold, tranquil and beautiful, narrowing perspectives and making every step a slow revelation, allowing me to experience beloved trees and landscapes anew.  

And, the snow. Of course, the snow, painting the Heath in black and white and joy.  

And, watching the sunrise over the city and the Heath. From benches on Parliament Hill, by the kitchen garden, in front of the fallen oak, by the tumulus, or over the boating pond, or while walking through the woods or across meadows.  

I am used to walking the Heath for solitude and escape from the city; but during lockdown it has given me the opposite — snatches of conversation, laughter and joy on the wind; people watching, distant but not unreachable; dogs, bounding up to play; hellos, good mornings and smiles exchanged in passing, a few seconds of contact more affirming than a two-hour zoom meeting.  

As daffodils, crocuses and longer days announce the end of winter, I am soaking in the last few weeks of this miracle of a season before I turn my eye to the riot of spring. I am already looking forward to my next winter with the Heath.