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Category: seasons

Flip Side

Flip Side

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Washington, D.C., had its first official snow day yesterday, with a quick-moving and more-powerful-than-anticipated storm closing federal government offices and sending commuters and school kids out on deteriorating roads.

It was a chaotic scene that’s now replaced by the peacefulness of a snow-crusted Wednesday morning. I’m working in front of a window with the transformed world spread out before me. Every limb and branch is coated in white with crows providing the contrast. When birds land on a snow-covered limb, a bit of the white stuff falls to the ground in a small clump, creating a second gentle snowfall.

I’m not a skier or skater. Walking and shoveling are the occupations that get me out into the elements. But I love these snowscapes just the same. They are a monochromatic, matte version of the usual scenery, a flip side, so to speak.

Frosted Fields

Frosted Fields

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An early walk on a Reston trail, one of my favorites. This is a paved path that winds between backyards and parkland before connecting with the Cross-County Trail. It’s cool and enticing in the summer because of the tall oaks that shade it — and no less lovely in the winter.

It was a quiet amble —  not a soul about — and the stillness rang in my ears. Birds fluttered in the hedges, and the stream, normally gurgling, was quiet in the cold. It was chilly, so I walked fast from the get-go, flipping up the hood on my parka and balling up my fists inside old gloves.

But three quarters of the way down on the left, I had to stop. The wetland landscape there was transformed by frost. Matted grasses gleamed with white and broken tree trunks loomed above them. There was thin ice where the creek water ponds and a monochromatic beauty throughout.

Beauty is always welcome, but never more than when it is unexpected.

Winter Lite

Winter Lite

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There are winter days when birds chatter in the hedges and what sun there is feels warm on the face. Holly berries gleam, set off by the occasional flash of scarlet from a cardinal.

I think of these days as “winter lite.” There is still a texture to them. They don’t yet have the scoured look and acrid smell of January cold. Yesterday was one of these days: it started cold but finished bright and sunny. Downy woodpeckers discovered the suet block and chickadees chittered at the feeder.

We bought our Christmas tree at a lovely church lot, rather than driving an hour west of here to cut it down. It was a welcome change — carols rang out over the parking lot and eager Boy Scouts put the tree on top of our car.

Winter lite: I’ll take it.

Appreciating Advent

Appreciating Advent

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It’s the first day of December and the first Sunday of Advent, and I’ve been trying to remember the last time we had such a tidy confluence. With Christmas on a Wednesday, that means each Advent Sunday will have its due, too.

I love Advent — the medieval-sounding hymns, the plain purple vestments, the wreaths and calendars, the air of joyful expectation.  Advent is about preparation, and I love that, too, because it reminds me that there are things worth waiting for and they are all the sweeter once they arrive.

Advent is often lost in the shuffle, folded into the Christmas season, but it has much to offer on its own. It reminds us to plan and anticipate, to watch and wonder, to read and reflect — and to do all of that secure in the knowledge that what we search for we will find, what we long for will be given to us.

Muted Palette

Muted Palette

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An early walk today amidst a muted palette of autumn color. The pink of the sunrise sky set off the glow of those leaves that still cling to their branches. The air was mild with a feeling of warmth and moisture. A flock of birds passed overhead.

We are heading for a monochromatic world, I know that. Already more limbs are bare than leafed. But it was hard not to revel in the beauty of the moment, not to get from it an optimism about things in general.

The kwanzan cherry tree, which was slower to change and has held its color longer than most, is finally shedding leaves at a frantic pace. But it’s all to prepare for next spring when it will send forth its big-fisted blossoms in a riot of pink.

Yes, there is winter to get through in the meantime. But today, or at least this morning, it was easy to forget about that.

Standing their Ground

Standing their Ground

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At first I worried that something was wrong with the crepe myrtle trees. Their leaves shriveled quickly, as if caught so suddenly by the cold that they didn’t have time to turn, loosen and gently fall to earth.

Then I noticed other trees, other species, with the same condition. This isn’t a disease. This is the crazy Arctic air that’s come south to taunt us.

These trees were minding their own business, heading gently through the season. They were captured still green and growing, led into winter with handcuffs on. At least they put up a fight.

Because yes, it’s reasonable to accept the seasons in one’s climate, place and lifetime. But sometimes it’s necessary to say no, this won’t stand. To cling to what is ours.

Snowflake Spotting

Snowflake Spotting

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Snowflakes were spotted yesterday, and the temperature never rose about the “high” of 37 that greeted me when I woke up. It’s Arctic air, the weather people said, and I wonder: Does Arctic air feel colder than plain old winter air?

Today I’d have to say yes. That may be because it was 15 degrees when I woke up and there’s a stiff breeze out there, too. Emerging from the Crystal City Underground felt like a slap in the face. Even just a few hundred feet of exposure was enough to send me shivering inside.

But the sun is bright and a big old moon was still up this morning when I walked Copper across the frost-stiffened grass. We’re moving closer to solstice, so ’tis the season for shivering. Which is just what I’m doing now.

(Caution: Snowflakes in the window may be smaller — and less real — than they appear.)

Smell of Burning Leaves

Smell of Burning Leaves

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Yesterday’s walk through the fading light of a late fall afternoon reminded me of what has been missing from the season. I caught a whiff of it when I rounded the corner. It was that autumn elixir — the smell of burning leaves.

Its source was unknown — and even if it wasn’t, I would protect its identity, since the practice must surely be illegal. In fact, I hesitate to mention it at all with California burning.

But neither illegality nor political incorrectness can erase the fact that I love this scent, that it fills me with both poignance and peace, an unlikely pairing that takes me right back to childhood.

I would have been playing all day in that scent, would have been jumping in those leaves, in big crisp piles of them before they were set to smolder. And soon I would be walking back into my mother’s kitchen, not my own. And it was the promise of that warmth and closeness that contrasted so perfectly with the lonely fragrance of ash and oak.

This, along with the scent of tobacco wafting from the big auction houses on the west end of town,  were the “smell-scapes” of my Kentucky childhood.  I don’t smell either of them anymore.  But they’re there. All it takes is the whiff of burning leaves to bring them back.

Cold Air

Cold Air

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It feels acrid in the nostrils and chilling to the bone. It’s the frigid air that has moved in and seemingly settled here.

Shivering on a short walk with Copper yesterday, I pondered how long it is till next summer, telling myself I have to do better. And, very shortly afterward, I did. I went for my own walk and, because it was brisker, the ole bod heated up, the everyday miracle of pumping blood.

And it was while on that walk that I thought about how cold air differs from warm, the way it smells — or doesn’t.  The way it tingles in the fingers and takes away the breath.

Soon I’ll grow used to it, but these first few days it’s an alien creature, something I welcome only cautiously back into my life.

Charged by Change

Charged by Change

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Night before last, our temperature dropped 40 degrees in a few hours. This morning it was 25 degrees when I woke up. Winter blew in right on time for the first winter month and the big light change this weekend.

I went out for a walk with three layers on … and it wasn’t enough. Time to break out the down jacket and turn on the heat, which has been off since April.

Though in the depths of winter I might fantasize about living in a place where it’s always warm, I never get too far. As much as I grumble about the cold, I like seasonal change, am charged up by it.

So today, on the coldest morning of the season, I will try to concentrate on the difference … and not the deficit.