Surviving Winter
by Mary Higgins
December’s
fading light of day softens into the gunmetal sky. In the morning a
shaft of sunlight illuminates the birds that haven’t flown South,
chirping below my kitchen window. Scarlet poinsettia add a bit of
cheer to all the dreariness that shortened days bring.
Winter
means braving brisk Canadian winds that rattle window panes. It’s
holding a cup of hot coffee with a mittened hand outside in an effort
to stay warm. Winter’s havoc penetrates through even the thickest
layer of clothing and peels the skin of tender lips.
Winter,
I sneer at you, baring my teeth like an angry dog as I struggle
through the uncertainty, the long chapter between Fall and Spring.
Winter is the grip of the ice-blade etching a line onto the frozen
pond; wearing socks to bed and saturating the skin with oil as heated
houses steal moisture.
Winter
holds us in its icy grasp dictating what we can do. Gone is the
freedom of cotton jackets and baseball caps. Instead we stuff our
feet into insulated socks and heavy boots; search for the long coat
that comes closest to the warmth of the down comforter and add hat
and scarf that further limit our limbs from natural gait and motion.
Winter
storms compete with our schedule delaying us along our paths as we
carefully navigate walkways seeking to avoid patches of ice and
puddles of slush. It freezes our keys in locks keeping us out of our
cars yet securing us inside our homes to be safe during an evening
storm.
Winter
is making plans then watching the white stuff snuff them out. It
forces us to squeeze in yet another postponed date on a tightly
packed calendar to finally get that appliance serviced, meet up with
a friend or attend that next meeting. Winter is a time of less action
and more reflection. I often wonder how many famous novels got
started in the winter months.
One
way to keep my aggression with winter at bay is to read Winter
from
the journals of
Henry
David
Thoreau.
This fascinating book of journal entries dated 1837 to 1859,
chronicles the esteemed writer’s journey through the challenging
Massachusetts winters. He focuses on the tiny details that set one
winter apart from the next-the chatter of the birds in trees; the
variations in temperature; and the appearance of tiny snow fleas that
arrive as piles of winter snow accumulate.
Reading
Thoreau helps me to put life’s discomforts in perspective as I read
how he chopped wood for his stove. All I need do is pay my fuel bills
on time to heat my home and as discouraging as it can be to track
down the elusive ingredients for a gluten-free meal, I don’t need
to hunt down deer in the snowy woods in order to eat dinner.
When
winter becomes too overwhelming, I attend yoga class in its toasty
room, entering with shoulders hunched from the chill, shedding layers
as my increasing body temperature inspires greater range of motion,
clad only in a t-shirt and shorts. I leave the studio walking taller,
prouder and able to face the world with a smile.
Mary
Higgins Ⓒ December 2014
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