I'm Major Jackson, and this is the slowdown.

In my 30s, I did not have the courage to tell my thin wife about the great days ahead when we moved to Burlington, Vermont.

On average, Queen City gets 58 days of sunlight and 101 partial days of sunshine.

That's a lot of darkness and gloom throughout the year.

We met in Portland, Oregon.

We were used to long stretches of gray skies.

The combination of frigid temperatures and such little light in the day tested our inner resources,

especially that first winter. But we found ways to endure. We made sure the house was tastefully lit with

candles. We started each day by feeding wood into the fireplace.

The crackling smell of the logs made for epic coziness.

We made sure to bundle up in layers and take a walk before the gloaming, which began just after my children's school let out.

We cooked stews and tested new soup recipes that warmed our bodies, coffees, teas, hot cider, just about any hot drink that steamed up our faces

helped to stave off the winter blues. We even concocted hot mead. This was long before we heard of the word

huga, the word in Danish and Norwegian that can mean coziness, but is more so an untranslatable

ethos of finding joy and simple things against the bleak and harsh realities.

We didn't know the word, but we were certainly finding the vibe.

But for those of us who want to hold onto the light as long as we can,

we make sure to embrace more than the material comforts.

We can make sure to surround ourselves with family, friends, and song.

So we must schedule dates and cafes and dinner outings,

because the nights do get lonely and cold.

Today's poem reveals another method of staring down the darkness, a converting despair into light, of staying rooted in an affirming, resilient spirit.

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