December: The Wreath

Every year my mom and I wander into the woods around this time and bind our wreaths for winter.

Starting with bones of grapevine, balled around and around itself until it holds a circular shape, then between the loops we tuck branches of whatever interesting shapes, colors, and textures we find in the winter woods. Some years we use string to tie in extra bits of decor - pine cones, glass baubles, some years we add ribbon or string lights, and some years we just leave it organic.

The walk itself is of such dear value; as summer-longing gardeners, this darkest time of year can be a bit of a slog, especially as those final self-affiriming late-autumn chores finish up - the roses are wrapped, the berries are mulched….now what?

It’s a wonderful meditation on shape and form from an artistic sentiment, too - no longer can your eyes rely on showy flowers and fragrant leaves; it’s all line and structure in the cold, wet woods. The thrilling black zig-zags of hawthorn branches, the soft cordovan of dangling birch catkins, papery whisps of slippery elm, brushy blue juniper and a mist of white pine… and with any luck, a swampy detour will reward you with the electric red punctuation of winter holly (Ilex decidua).

Then, to return to warm, dry ground with our treasures, and in homage to the old ways, binding it all into a circle to represent the sun that we’re so missing now, at the bottom of the year, and to acknowledge the cycle of the year - the faith in oncoming spring, despite the cold.

So much more than a stop to the big-box store to buy a glamorous pre-made flag of festivity - though I’m sure there would be different value in that for me were it one of my traditions. But so many of the old holiday stories involve forgettable scurf - sticks, spidersilk, broken toys - transformed into riches through hope, hard work, and holding together. This armful of vines and branches, scraped from the countryside ditches our cars are careened toward is our quarry and our reward - nothing more is needed than the hope and hard word (and some tough gloves).

It’s a small thing - an annual afternoon in the cold and wet with mom, but the circle continues, and our wreaths hang above our door like wild, wintry suns, illuminating the garden we’re imagining just a few months from now, and shining a warm, welcoming path for our holiday visitors.