Amihan
A poem (and essay)
Amihan It’s December and the Siberian High has cooled the air in these parts. On my evening walk, I like the slight chill and the dry- ness of the air. I spy the blinking lights of the parols of my neighbors. These nights remind me of the coming Simbang Gabi and the Noche Buena at my brother-in-law’s house, the light broth of the almondigas, the spicy and thick callos, and the chaos of a dozen cousins singing karaoke and playing games online with seven more cousins in Canada. Some respite from the storms and floods from the rest of the year. As I shiver a little, walking slightly uphill, I look up at the clear sky and feel grateful that I am not afflicted by the cold bite of snow. December 6, 2025 Inspired by Beth Kempton’s SoulCircle prompt on Dec. 1, 2025, Wintery. Image by Michael Edwards via Canva.
In the Philippines, December arrives not with snowdrifts or icy roads but with the cool breath of the Amihan—a trade wind I grew up feeling long before I understood where it came from. This year, I learned that the chill settling over our evenings traces its way from as far as Siberia, carried southward by the vast pressure system known as the Siberian High. Somehow, this knowledge deepens my sense of wonder. Cold air traveling across continents just to brush my skin as I walk around the neighborhood—it feels like nature’s quiet reminder that we are connected in ways we rarely pause to imagine.
I’ve only experienced “real” winter once, during a trip to Lake Tahoe years ago. I remember how the snow startled me: its beauty undeniable, its cold almost aggressive. My tropical body rebelled, insisting that I belonged somewhere humid, somewhere ringed by seas. That brief encounter with winter confirmed what I had always suspected—I am an island girl, carved by monsoons and salt water, meant for balmy air and sun-warmed skin. Winter, in its pure form, feels like someone else’s story.
December brings a tenderness to the air, even as the storms of the rest of the year remind us how fragile our islands have become.
And yet December is still one of my favorite months. We have no winter at all in the Philippines. Still, this time of the year brings its own sensory miracles: the crisp dryness of the air during evening walks, the soft shiver that makes me tuck my hands into my pockets, the bright blinking of parols punctuating the dusk. These small things set the stage for the rituals that shape my sense of home—counting down to Simbang Gabi, anticipating Noche Buena at my brother-in-law’s house, and knowing the table will groan with familiar comfort. Almondigas, fragrant with broth, meatballs, and noodles; callos, rich with spice; cousins, filling the rooms with a joyful chaos that spills across borders as they video-call seven more cousins in Canada. These are the constants in a country where so much else is unpredictable.
Because outside the frame of these festive moments lies the harder truth: the Philippines is warming, storm seasons growing more violent each year. We brace for floods, winds, and the deep frustration that comes from knowing much of the destruction could be prevented if not for corruption. Our archipelago experiences December differently now—not just as relief from heat, but as a brief pause in a cycle of climate anxiety.
Still, when I walk uphill at night and look up at the clear sky, the familiar gratitude rises. The cold I feel is gentle, almost companionable, a kind of tenderness compared to the bite of snow. It reminds me that winter doesn’t have to be brutal to be felt. It can be a soft season too—a moment of cool air, quiet lights, and the nearness of family.
This is my taste of winter: Amihan, the wind that travels thousands of miles to arrive at my doorstep, offering a fleeting chill and, with it, a sense of peace.
If you found inspiration in these words, please send me a coffee. Otherwise, just stopping by to read these words means the world to me. Thank you.