Season of Bare Branches … honoring the wonder of the ordinary

By Mary Kay Roth

Every morning when I take a loop around Holmes Lake, I always pause in the same familiar spot where I have the perfect view of my four favorite trees. They change clothes each season, of course, snow-capped in winter, leafed out in summer greenery and gilded in the fall.

This week, however, they are naked – stark silhouettes of scaffolding branches, dark tree skeletons with each limb reaching out in strength and grace. 

This has become my favorite time of year, a time I call the “Season of Bare Branches” – the season of long, languorous shadows and enormous, unending skies – the season of slow, sensuous sunsets lingering into the golden of twilight – of crystal-clear nights opening up to shimmering stars. 

There is a simplicity to these weeks on the calendar as they create the perfect occasion to honor the wonder of the ordinary. There is no judgment or busyness in this moment, no raking or shoveling or seeding.  

Right now our only task is to take respite in the awe of the exquisite bone structure of our land. To breathe in the bleak beauty of every hollow, hill, marsh, farm field, creek run, prairie. 

Summer’s showy blossoms have faded and vivid autumn foliage has fallen. Switchgrasses and bluestem prairie have dried, cattails exploded, coneflowers and Black-eyed Susans grown brittle.

Flowerbeds have been thinned, leaves mulched into the ground.  Rakes are put away, snow shovels still stowed away.  It’s chilly, but not cold to the bone. And the chaotic holiday frenzy has not yet worn us weary.

You can’t hide behind the Season of Bare Branches – the outlines of interior and exterior landscapes lie open and exposed. You can spot every bird on the limb, hawks and cardinals and sparrows, perched with their feathers puffed up against the coming cold.  The State Capitol is now visible from my Woods Park neighborhood in light of uncluttered vistas and open horizons.

And trees are completely undressed, stripped and raw against startling blue skies – their web of black, bony limbs still cradling the leftover nests of squirrels and birds. You can almost feel their texture, grow curious about the patterns of their bark.  And though you can so clearly see the shape of each tree, suddenly you also recognize the space between them, creating jigsaw puzzle pieces of open air. 

When I was younger, I much preferred the spring, giddy with joy at the annual jolt of purple crocus and bright-yellow daffodils.  In early adulthood I moved South for a job and the promise of warmth – never anticipating that I would hate the long, boring months, one running into another, with a continued monotony of moderate temperatures and stale, always-lime landscapes.

Ever since I came back home, I’ve basked in all four, glorious seasons. But through the years, I am increasingly drawn to this Season of Bare Branches, an unprepossessing time painted in the colors of earth and rest.

Make no mistake, I will dance deliriously when the first snowflakes tumble this winter. And I’ll plant my pansies far too early in anticipation of spring.

But for now, let me hit the pause button and bask in the Season of Bare Branches.  Let me hunker down, take a deep cleansing breath and stay here, please, for just awhile longer.

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