Winter arrives. It’s already a long one. Yet each day forward grows brighter.
The sun will shine longer. There will be more light.
I look to the season not with angst, but with thanks.
I can go there anytime, even while gazing from a window. Snow blankets trees in spare scenes. The green hemlock glows. I peer deep in the wilderness, through paths yet seen.
I like the minimalism, the stripping away, of the unnecessary.
It is quiet in the winter. A padded silence descends upon the snows. The cold air is crisp and fresh. I can in get a quick workout by shoveling a path or deck, warm my bones in a snowsuit, a few hard breaths, little sweat. The hot chocolate or tea inside soon sips sweet.
I go often to “Florida,” when the sun shines through the glass storm door and warms the tiles of our little foyer. Grab a pad and sit on the floor. Wave to a passerby, eat lunch. Soak in some rays. Call a friend and chat.
Winter is a time of rest and repair. Bears hibernate. I wish I could too, but then I would miss the act of winding down and finding more of myself, in my own wild open.
When I was young and worked summers in a grain warehouse, with mornings at dawn, I’d ask my mother to wake me on my day off, so I could have the pleasure of rolling over and falling back asleep. Winters are the weekends of my year.
I wake. I live at my pace. I breathe deep and explore the wilds around me, the paths yet explored in me.
I dream of skiing. The gentle rush of flowing downhill on the snow.
I lean on my shovel and smile.