January is supposed to be white and bright. Clear cold days. Nights shining with stars. The ground a solid blanket of snow. Looking outside, I might think it was November. I accept grey in November. I understand that the brilliant colour of October cannot last. It’s a flame that has to burn out. During that month, I await the quiet rest of a world covered in snow.

Instead, soggy faded leaves mark the landscape.

Standing at the edge of my back yard, all I see is grey. Flat, grey stones lead to grey water under a pale grey sky reaching toward a hazy grey horizon where water and cloud meet. Every now and again, a few ducks—looking slate grey in the dull light--paddle by, diving to find something under the grey surface.

A few days the sky has been less solid. There have been swift-passing glimpses of blue. A few nights have been crystal cold with the moon shining and a glimpse of stars. A reminder of what we know—there is a universe beyond the clouds.

At least, it has not warmed up enough to waken salamanders and toads and moths. December did wake them. One spider ventured out inside the garage; I told it to go hide by swiping my hand through its web.

A few patches of snow provide cover for those who hibernate through the cold months though there is a layer of leaves hiding insects, covering plants. I worry about bare fields where winter wheat was planted, but I think the forest and gardens, even the lawns, will be okay.

Some days have been relatively still. Walking on the road, I can hear each scrape of my dog’s nails on the asphalt, the sound of each of my own footfalls. There is something peaceful about the stillness that helps relax the worry that the greyness instills.

So, while I crave the cold January sun and the brightness of a blanket of snow, stepping out into the world as it is grounds me. I will catch sight of the white grey black patterned feathers of chickadees. I will touch the rough grey bark of old trees. The still waters of the bay on a windless day bring a sense of quiet. It is busy somewhere. Cars are rushing down roads somewhere. Here, there is quiet with only my footfalls and a few chicka-dee-dee-dees breaking the sound of peace.

As I step out into the world that I am given, I remember a quote from Wendell Barry. He said that when despair for the world grips him, he goes out to the marsh, to the presence of still water and birds. He feels the presence of stars that cannot be seen in the light of the sun. “I rest in the grace of the world, and am free,” he concludes.

There is much to worry about this year. Inflation. War on the edge of Europe. Fighting in other parts of the world. A new strain of covid 19. A climate emergency that too many deny. A strained healthcare system. The troubles on our own doorsteps. The world as a whole feels trapped in grey, burdened by grey.

Yet, I hear voices that speak of optimism, that proclaim hope. Innovators claim that we have the tools to mitigate the climate emergency. Pharmacists have stepped up to administer vaccines and now to offer prescriptions that save visits to doctors and emergency rooms. I don’t yet see a back door exit for Russia or rescue for Ukraine, but in the midst of a burden of grey, there are beams of light.

I came across a new word this week: respair. It means “recovery from despair.” Falling into despair would be too easy this year as we list the huge problems that we ourselves cannot solve. Letting despair take over, however, gives unconditional power to the problems of the world.

Finding a path to respair is the only path to life. We may find it at a conference on water or renewable energy. We may find it in the signs of life in our backyard. We may find it in the memory of the stars hidden by clouds and sun’s light. Or we find it in the sound of our quiet steps walking persistently forward.

Cathy Hird lives on the traditional territory of the Saugeen Ojibway Nation.