In search of the real nirvana in the Big Dark

January 22, 2026
Owl Feather Farm, San Juan Island

Didn’t go for a walk.

The dogs didn’t either.

No Pilates. No weights.

Didn’t even stretch.

No sit-ups.

No yoga.

In search of the real nirvana in the Big Dark
Dogs know what to do in January

Last Sunday was a lost day in the midst of the height of the Big Dark, the name for this time of year in the north, and you know what?

It’s OK.

Rain was sluicing down.

A steady southeast bluster brought temperatures that varied from 46 to… 48.

Water drops slapped the windows.

A rumor of light behind seventeen cloud layers was like a candle in a house of ghosts on a distant hill. Maybe the moon, maybe the sun, maybe aliens squandering cold fusion nuclear power.

We are of North European extraction, Nicole and I. So are our dogs, Weimaraners; and our Shetland pony and Polish Warmblood. Not only do we all genetically recognize this kind of weather in this time of year, we know what to do.

The dogs, Simon and Bleu, dashed outside to do their business as hastily as New Yorkers crossing against traffic, then made sure the couch was comfy. The horses headed out to grump around in the lee of the trees, then trotted back to the barn. The household heat manager brought in firewood by tiptoeing along the back of the garage where there was wind- and rain-shelter.

We both disappeared into digital nirvana, Eric watching football and Nicole old martial arts movies. Yes, that does happen here at our progressive, holistic, natural wellness farm. It’s useful to reflect on what ‘nirvana’ means. It’s not bliss, the metaphysically hilarious mistake that most people make about that term. Nirvana is a transcendant state opposite bliss in which there is no suffering, desire or sense of self. You could hardly find a better description for a gray day spent watching football and Bruce Lee.

No progress was made. No retreat, either.

Again, all this is OK. Not for every day, but for occasional episodes at the depths of the Big Dark, the time of year when our ancestors long ago huddled around the fire in the communal cave or longhouse sharing ancestral stories, chants and myths, passing these on to the next generation and on down through the languid fogs of time.

Once long ago I was slumping along the road trying to achieve an “energy walk” when I bumped into a wise neighbor who asked how I was. No ambition, I replied. Doing nothing. Lackadaisical. Indolent. Sludgy. Feeling guilty.

“But that’s how you should feel this time of year!” she exclaimed. “Except guilty. Just don’t go to bed and stay there until spring.”

Modern people are wont to call these “mental health days,” as if it’s necessary to excuse the failure to make a million dollars or write a book or exercise five hours or bake up Black Forest cake for a midday snack. Blame our Puritan forebears. Don’t blame Native peoples—they all knew what to do: Keep the fire going and hang out until the daffodils bloom.

There was no cooking that Sunday. No money was made. No books written.

No exercise.

All perfectly, wonderfully fine.

—Eric Lucas

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