I wonder about winter sometimes. Colin Meloy wrote a lyric about the winter. How I lived a childhood in the snow.
And all my teens in tow. Stuffed in strata of clothes. I understand what he was saying, but do I? He writes in the past tense, as if the snow is no longer something of which he must contend. He achieved and therefore he found a way to eliminate the snow from his life, which means he can now write poetically and nostalgically about that long ago condition. Few people living in snow write so fondly of it, unless we’re in the mountains, where mere flakes in the air stirs the western senses. I was out there recently, among the mountains, mixing with the mountain types, and walked one morning in a heavy flurry. A woman walked past me and into the oncoming snow, her jacket trimmed in fur, her face fixed in an awkward but happy stare. I knew she was happy about the snow, but more than happy. Elated.
This winter it has been snowy. Shouldn’t it be? There’s some warmth in the air today. A hint of moderation on the building south wind. Should I be happy with this? Or should I root for the winter and the cold and the snow? Why do I care? I don’t know as though I do, but I think I do. Why not test what I’m made of? Lord knows I rarely test that moxie outside of a weekly tennis match that I start lethargically before building into some level of intensity, before falling off as quickly as I started when I realize that I have bigger things to think about than this point. Why didn’t I run for that ball? Because the outcome of that point didn’t matter, that’s why. But this is a weekly test to see if things still work, and so far, they do. Shouldn’t I also hope for the snow and the cold and the bitterness so I can face it and understand my limits? I think I should, and so I do. It’s winter, after all, and I’m here for it.