Last Saturday, between snow storms, Steve and I went for a hike on the Red-Dot-Blue- Dot trails, a seven-mile loop near Los Alamos that drops a thousand feet in a mile to the Rio Grande, before winding upstream and climbing steeply back to the rim.
We’ve hiked this trail so many times that our shared memories have merged into a single time-lapse movie reel in my mind. There were the fall walks when we heard sandhill cranes bugling far above, flying south in a humongous, shifting V, one flock after another; and the spring walk during the pandemic when we saw them flying north. One day in late summer, I ran to the river to meet Steve and the girls who were on a raft trip downstream and were camped for the night on the shore.
Then there was the time when we came upon a rattlesnake coiled into a tight ball on a rock beside the trail.
“Where do you think that snake is now?” I asked Steve, and I could tell by the way he answered right away that he’d been remembering it, too.
“Underground,” he said. “Tucked into a little spot four or five feet down, keeping warm.”
There were patches of snow on the trail, in the shade of piñons, and mud in places where the sun beamed down, but still, it was January, and the ground looked cold.
“Brrr,” I said.
“Actually,” Steve said, “it’s warmer under there. That’s the whole point. It’s the same temperature year round, probably about 50 degrees.” I pictured the snake tucked into its cozy little dirt den. Good, I thought, stay there.
A snake’s holes is called hibernaculum, he went on. The term flowed right off his tongue like it’s a word he says everyday; Steve’s a walking encyclopedia of natural phenonmena, full of weird and cool facts about weird and cool things. I pictured the little hidey-holes my sisters and I would make a game of finding when we were kids, secret openings in the bushes where you could nestle and no one would see you until you wanted to be seen.
We’d reached the river. It was glittery and bright in the late afternoon sun—practically turquoise in its winter clarity. The dogs threw themselves in with abandon. The water was so beautiful I couldn’t stop staring.
That’s when it hit me: We all need our own hibernaculum this time of year, a cozy spot to burrow in and rest for a bit before 2024 sweeps us into full-send mode.
In my hibernaculum, I don’t make resolutions. Instead I think up words for the coming year. Some are spontaneous; other are hopes or intentions. My list is always a work in process.
Usually, if I really mean them, the words come true, at least partly. I try not to make big plans for the year until at least the second half of January. When I was prepping seriously for summer ultramarathons, I’d give myself until at least until the 20th before I even started thinking about training.
Last Sunday, after we got back from the Rio Grande, I hosted an afternoon writing retreat with Living Tea at Folklore, a little shop a few blocks from my house. We had tea and wrote by hand and then, just before dark, we went walking in the snow to see what we could notice. What I noticed were the finest snowflakes falling on my nose, farolitos lining adobe walls, icicles frozen mid-drip from canales, the sweet scent of pinon smoke, and lights on in all the houses along Garcia Street. When we got back to our cozy tea room, we were all bursting with energy and ideas for writing. A hibernacula is a sanctuary, but it’s not shut off from the world. The process works best when we go out into the elements and then come back in.
A hibernaculum is where we build momentum for our creative work, incubate our ideas, and dream ourselves into being. It’s not mere a physical place. It’s a way of being.
We still have at least another week in our hibernacula before the world really starts looking for us. Don’t rush. Stay in yours as long as you can. Make some tea and write by hand. Read a good book*. Bundle up and go outside in the polar vortex or the powder, then come back in. Maybe your dog will lie at your feet, as mine does after a cold run or ski, wedged halfway under the woodstove like a salamander lapping up heat. Even if it’s warm where you are, you can create your own refuge for your imagination, in your imagination.
Happy hibernating, and when you’re ready to emerge, I’ll have lots of fun details about upcoming Flow Camps to share with you! In the meantime, SAVE THESE DATES!
• River Flow Camp for Women: May 30-June 2 at Field Trip NM on the Pecos River
• Mountain Flow Camp for Women: Sept 5-8 at High Camp Hut, Colorado
• Desert Flow Camp, Co-ed, date TBA October 2024, Marfa and Big Bend, TX
*Brief Flashings in the Phenomenal World will be published on April 16, 2024 and is now available for pre-order!
Please help build word-of-mouth and bookseller buzz by pre-ordering your copy today, online or at your favorite indie bookstore! Thank you for your support!
Til next week!
katie
Bravo Katie. I pre-ordered your book!
I'd like to say my home office is my hibernaculum, but the local library functions better for incubating creativity. I find I need to go someplace and then connect with others—working quietly side by side, interrupted only by an occasional hello—to be most productive, as if I have an appointment for writing and reading at the library. I wish I felt as much that way at home!
I love that too! Working in coffee shops and also weirdly airports! I love writing on airplane! Window seat of course 😊