Walking yesterday into the wind, fists stuffed into my sleeves, Emily Dickinson came to mind: “The sky is low, the clouds are mean.” They popped into my head as snowflakes and sleet pellets flew through the air.

The precipitation was the perfect accompaniment to the howling wind and the rumbling jet engines (which is what happens on windy days in my neighborhood).

I felt like I was walking into a wall of winter, into a maelstrom of it. Nothing to do but push through—and remind myself that a warm house was waiting on the other side.