I have a love/hate relationship with winter. I hate the grey skies, the ice, the snow, the constant cold, staying inside all the time, risking frostbite to smoke a cigar, the early darkness, the annoying glare of the sun off the white of the snow. The cold and the grey and the dark combine to make me generally pretty miserable.

Image Credit: Alfred Borchard

I also love winter. I love the grey skies, the early dark, the lack of leaves and color. Even feeling miserable all the time. In a way, that makes me happy, too.

Because every now and again, you really ought to be miserable, and cold, and grey. Now, I’m not talking “nobody loves me and I spend all of mommy and daddy’s allowance on black nail polish and Cure CDs” miserable.

No, I’m talking T.S. Eliot, Book of Lamentations, “Ozymandias”, moody. The kind of moody that requires good scotch, Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, and a comfortable chair so you can really get a good bit of melancholy on. The kind of moody that inspires great works of art.

This is not, of course, the type of feelings that our society encourages at this time of year. No, no. It is, as the insidious carol wails on over this entire season, “the most wonderful time of the year.” Buildings are filled with brightly colored lights, insipid, catchy songs fill the air, and we’re constantly demanded to lose the cynicism. Which is all well and good, I suppose, but all of the exhortations to “be of good cheer” somewhat lose the history of the relationship that humans have traditionally had with Winter.

To the Greeks, winter was a time of sadness because it symbolized the time that Demeter’s daughter, Persephone, dwelt in the Underworld with her husband Hades. To the Norse, Winter was a part of the circle of life, but it was expected that there would be three years of it preceding Ragnarok. The Romans took the winter solstice as the opportunity of “Saturnalia”–a time when the world turned upside down.

In art and literature, winter has traditionally been seen as a symbol of death or defeat. Robert Frost’s poem “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” is one example, as is Jack London’s tale “To Build A Fire”, which is about nature’s victory over man.

Suffice to say, this is quite at odds with our culture’s desire to pursue happiness at all costs. Now, don’t get me wrong–the impulse to pursue happiness is, by and large, a good thing. But every now and again it’s a good thing to feel a little melancholy. To meditate on one’s own mortality is a healthy thing.

There’s a reason why, after big victories, a servant would whisper these words into a victorious Roman general’s ear: “Respice post te! Hominem te esse memento! (Look behind you! Remember that you are but a man!).” There’s a reason why, on Ash Wednesday, Catholics are told, “Remember man, that thou art dust, and to dust thou shalt return.” It’s because it’s important to remember that one day, we’re all going to die. One day, all of our works will crumble to dust. Not only does contemplating this keep us humble, it keeps us focused on today. On our lives, and what makes them worthwhile.

Winter is an appropriate time to think about this. Animals are burrowed, plants die, leaves fall off of trees, and all of our surroundings are grey and bleak. Sitting by a fire and staring out a window, it’s not hard to to feel bad and to have one’s thoughts turn to depressing things. That’s a good thing. Ignore the mistletoe, toss the holly onto the ground and wallow in it for awhile.

However, this doesn’t mean that your winter should be completely depressing and cynical, either. Don’t forget that while December 22 marks winter solstice, it also marks the Roman feast of “Sol Invictus”–the unconquered sun. The Romans recognized that while Winter Solstice is the shortest day of the year, it also marks the beginning of end of winter. After that, days become longer, which heralds the coming of warmer, happier seasons.

Winter, too, shall pass.