Dawn Picken: Now is the winter of our discontent

Winter's a breeze in the Bay, compared with other places. Photo/file

It's dark at 6.30am as I write. That's the problem. The darkness. It's not cooler temperatures, not necessarily rain, but darkness that disturbs. Welcome to Day Two of winter.

Bah. Humbug. We haven't yet reached the shortest day of the year - June 21st, when the sun rises in Tauranga at 7.30am and slides to bed at 5.04pm. At least we're not in Invercargill, where the winter solstice sunrise happens at 8.31am (sunset is 5.06pm).

I call them Lost Hours - beach walking hours, lingering outdoors hours - activities swallowed by darkness in the season of apathy.

Winter's a breeze in the Bay, compared with other places. I spent four decades in Jack Frost's grip. As a child, I sledded, skied, shovelled snow and watched school closure lists scroll across our TV screen.

I grew up in what's called a snow belt, a place bordering Lake Erie where cold air moves over warmer water, sucking up moisture that later dumps as snow.

Nearly 200cm of snow accumulates in Ashtabula County, on average, each winter. Spokane, Washington, where we lived for 10 years, routinely sees daily snowfalls of 30cm or more.

A couple seasons, I wondered whether the roof of our house would collapse under layers of wet, heavy snow. This past winter was one of Spokane's snowiest ever, with more than 150cm total accumulation.

Our family visited in January, when temperatures dropped to less than -20C. The chill was accompanied by a thick crust of ice and snow that seemed permanently stitched to the ground, further convincing me winter ain't nothing in sunny Bay of Plenty.

Nothing, save for darkness. We rise in blackness and drive home in it, too.

It's like perennial sorcery performed by Sauron here in Middle Earth. I tolerate winter by counting days: 20 until we start gaining seconds and minutes of light; 114 until we change the clocks ahead, grabbing an extra hour of evening light at once.

I envy my nomadic friends who flew to the Northern Hemisphere last month and won't return until spring.

My disposition is coffee cup half-full. But it's hard to look at the bright side when the bright side is brief. We see just nine-and-a-half hours of light each day during early winter compared to nearly 15 hours of daylight in late December. Where has the time gone, indeed?

Even if you don't have Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD), it's easy to feel blue. How do people closer to either pole, say, in southern Argentina or northern Norway, survive winter?

Studies of residents in Tromso, Norway, where, from late November to late January, the sun never climbs above the horizon, have found lower rates of seasonal depression than expected.

Apparently, people in Tromso - at 69 degrees north - think winter should be enjoyed rather than endured. They ski, light fires and candles, enjoy warm beverages and sit under fuzzy blankets. They take part in local celebrations. They're positive about winter.

I'm positive I miss daylight.

I miss the community feel of summer. I see more of my friends and neighbours during longer days, when we're outside after work. We hibernate in winter, even in temperate Tauranga.

Yes, I'll plan a ski trip. Yes, I'll snuggle under a blanket with my family to watch Netflix. Yes, I'll cook chilli and make hot chocolate and spy on my kids' social media accounts (the last item, a recent addition to my winter fun list).

I'm no Shakespeare scholar, but the Bard must've hated winter, too, since he used it repeatedly as a metaphor of disdain, disgust and hopelessness. King Henry VI includes, "Barren winter, with his wrathful nipping cold ..."

Sonnet 5 speaks of "hideous winter". Each year, the popular quote "winter of our discontent", the opening lines from Richard III, spring to mind.

I'd assumed the phrase had something to do with winter's misery. Just this week, in reading the next phrase (and with help from online study guides), I finally learned the intended meaning of this oft-quoted snippet.

"Now is the winter of our discontent/Made glorious summer by this son of York."

One guide explains the lines together translate to something like "unhappiness is over, and now the wonderful summer is upon us".

The sun will start setting on my discontent as the days grow longer - starting in about three weeks.

Like a dog at the window, nose pressed to the glass, I'll await daylight's return.

Remember to set your clocks forward - in 114 days.