Ode to Winter
I've never loved winter as much as I have this year. Laramie apparently does not share my enthusiasm. I hear lots of people saying, "I'm tired of snow" or "I wish it would warm up" or "I fell on my ass crossing the street again today!" or "I'm ready for some green grass and a suntan" or whatever it is they say to indicate that they're anxious for the change of seasons to take place.
But not me.
This has been the first winter in my recent memory that has blessed us with snow consistently. Most winters, it seems to me, dump about four big storms on town, and then the snow blows away and we end up with a mostly dry season. But not this year--I woke up again this morning to a skiff of new whiteness, and we're supposed to get more this weekend. I've shoveled snow on 12 or 14 days, at least, and maybe more. It feels great to have a winter that actually feels, to me, like winter: you wake up, and there's a fifty-fifty chance that you'll need to grab the shovel and clear the sidewalk before heading off to the day. I like that. It probably helps that I'm in walking distance to work, which means I don't have to warm up the car, scrape ice, fight bad roads, or cuss the cold leather seats.
I think I also like winter right now because it matches my heart. The last 2 years have been a long, cold season for me, filled with death, loss, and, often, isolation. I feel in some ways that the physical world is finally matching my inner world. The cold, lately, has become a friend. The crisp air and the frost help clean me out, help purge me of the doubt and anger and uncertainty that have been growing on me. The winter outside builds my hope that an internal spring will come, a season of new life, new growth, new joy. I'm perfectly content to let winter contineue killing off the parts of me that were old and diseased; I'm perfectly content to let the leaves of my past years fall; I'm perfectly content to be covered with quiet blankets of pure, new, fresh snow. This year, I'm in no rush for spring to arrive. Because when it comes, I want to be ready.
But not me.
This has been the first winter in my recent memory that has blessed us with snow consistently. Most winters, it seems to me, dump about four big storms on town, and then the snow blows away and we end up with a mostly dry season. But not this year--I woke up again this morning to a skiff of new whiteness, and we're supposed to get more this weekend. I've shoveled snow on 12 or 14 days, at least, and maybe more. It feels great to have a winter that actually feels, to me, like winter: you wake up, and there's a fifty-fifty chance that you'll need to grab the shovel and clear the sidewalk before heading off to the day. I like that. It probably helps that I'm in walking distance to work, which means I don't have to warm up the car, scrape ice, fight bad roads, or cuss the cold leather seats.
I think I also like winter right now because it matches my heart. The last 2 years have been a long, cold season for me, filled with death, loss, and, often, isolation. I feel in some ways that the physical world is finally matching my inner world. The cold, lately, has become a friend. The crisp air and the frost help clean me out, help purge me of the doubt and anger and uncertainty that have been growing on me. The winter outside builds my hope that an internal spring will come, a season of new life, new growth, new joy. I'm perfectly content to let winter contineue killing off the parts of me that were old and diseased; I'm perfectly content to let the leaves of my past years fall; I'm perfectly content to be covered with quiet blankets of pure, new, fresh snow. This year, I'm in no rush for spring to arrive. Because when it comes, I want to be ready.
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