Even with my seven days of manifesto-ing, I thought I was very, very done with winter. Especially when I woke up to double digit negative numbers twice this week.
And then, I stepped out on my front porch yesterday morning and I saw this:
oh. oh. oh.
It happens every year about this time, between thaws and deep freezes. The trees turn to sculptures of ice. Muted morning light pouring across my yard, everything seemed so still, fragile. I thought for a moment the branches could actually shatter, like glass, if a bird landed or the wind began to stir.
And then, as I was letting our dogs out the back door, I noticed this:
Yes, that is a freshly groomed cross country trail, looping through the middle of my backyard (just ignore the well worn paths of pups and kids). The trail is part of a 5k system that runs behind our house, on the property of good friends who take very good care of us. I sipped tea and smiled, already feeling the rhythm and silence of a good ski.
I fell in love with winter all over again, because after all, I live in northern Michigan. It’s what we do.
Today, the thermometer pushed into the mid-40s on my back deck. My fresh ski track now droops with the weight of melting snow. I wore a vest instead of a down jacket to run errands. I pushed slush piles in my driveway.
And then, tonight, it hits me: spring is coming. The thought carries me outside, for a deep inhalation of still-crisp March air. This too happens every year, this little reminder to celebrate each season,
each day, for what it is…because as much as I look forward to this:
I will soon be sighing and wondering where winter went. And why it had to go so quickly.