The Whale of Winter

I crawl in—a willing Jonah

THE WHALE OF WINTER

This is the time of

the belly, and I crawl in—

a willing Jonah.

— first haiku from my series published in the 2025 Apricity issue of Prosetrics Magazine

Photo by Robin S on Unsplash

It’s true—I’ve crawled into the belly of the whale of winter, have come to rest against its ribs and make something of a home here.

I was a willing Jonah. No one even had to pitch me in the ocean or command the fish to swallow me whole; that whale opened its mouth and I climbed in just like I’d been invited.

Have you ever closed your eyes to the sun with your back on the grass? That’s what it’s like to be inside this belly—I’m aware of movement and light, but only in its second degree, like when it’s filtered through the semi-translucence of your eyelids.

And do you remember being four years old in your own slippery skin, plunging your head below the bath bubbles until your hair fanned out in a delicate tiger-crown and the loudest thing you could hear was the beating of your own heart in your ears? You knew your mother was in the kitchen cleaning supper dishes while your dog lumbered back to her bed, but those external sounds were just vibrations that harmonized with the thrumming of thu-thump there in your skull. Well, the belly of the whale is like that.

I could count his ribs in the gray-cold for hours just as I could lay in the grass all afternoon or soak in the bath till my skin pickled. I turn inward; what is it Henri Nouwen says? “I do often prefer my darkness…” ¹ I’ve felt every border of this animal’s cavity, and I need only run my fingers down his sides to feel where I am. Just like the woman who gets up in the night and knows her way to the bathroom in the dark, so too can I steer my way though these homely confines.

I’ve been here before.

And yet. In just one moment of upheaval, this dankish comfort of mine tilts and shifts and I haven’t even got time to reach for a rib before I go rolling and—oh, glorious God—with no know-how or say-so, a spot of sun streams through the spout of this beast and I seem to have swallowed some in my surprise, for my insides leap in recognition at this ancient revelation and if I were a bud on a branch, I would have just unfolded even though February is the time of the deep freeze, yes—

it is a luminosity that brings levity and just like that, I am called from the belly of the whale, and I do somersaults as he belches me from his body and I remember, all over again, that I am a child made for light.

I’m also trying out this new button, where you can chip in to show your support of The Second Cup by donating a dollar or two if a post really resonates with you, rather than committing to a monthly subscription. These donations will go towards tuition as I pursue my M. Div at Pillar Seminary, and while I appreciate them—please know that your presence here is by far the most important gift you could bring.

1. From his book, The Road to Daybreak: A Spiritual Journey