It is full-on winter now — temperature in the teens when I woke up. How right it feels, when the furnace hums and the clocks tick and the birds chirp, how right it feels for it to be cold outside. The snow falls and stays. The bare trees stand sentinel.
December was lovely but strange, warmer than some Octobers. Lawn care chores piled up around me. Bulb-planting blistered my palms.
Now, being inside is not only expected, it is necessary. There is a kind of relief in that.
Now that winter is settling in, it’s decided to give us another dollop of snow to freshen up the batch we received on Monday. Which means I’ve been scanning the clouds.
Yesterday we had a swirled and mottled firmament, a stingy winter sky. Though it was a montage of clearing and melting, the sky kept its distance.
At about 3 in the afternoon, between errands, I looked up and thought: This is all the light we’re going to see. It’s a sober realization but also a practical one. In weather, as in life, it’s good to know what you have.
I have in my temporary possession a book called The Best of Brevity. It’s a compilation of short essays from the journal Brevity, which features flash nonfiction.
The genre of flash nonfiction is relatively new to me, although I write it everyday. It is the true-to-life equivalent of flash fiction. part of a trend — probably long since peaked if I’m catching onto it — toward the brief, the ephemeral, the transitory.
Let me add to this canon with what I’ve come to think of as flash gratitude.
Flash gratitude is the sudden, piercing awareness of life’s blessings. Stubbing one’s toe and thinking … at least I have a toe to stub. Or hearing the gentle purr of forced-air heat and giving thanks for the warm home I sit in as a result.
I had a moment of flash gratitude yesterday when I heard about fellow Virginians trapped for 18 to 20 hours on an impassable I-95. They were cold, hungry, frightened and, most likely, angry. They were bearing the brunt of the snow storm in a real and all-too-personal way.
Let this be a gratitude trigger, I told myself. Whenever life looks bleak and purposeless, I will conjure up those poor souls trapped in their Kias or Toyotas or Hondas or Fords, those poor shivering drivers and passengers, and my heart will nearly burst with joy that I am anywhere else but on a snow-packed, jack-knifed-tractor-filled I-95.
(This snow has its beauteous moments, too.)
I began yesterday’s walk by pulling on a pair of ancient snow boots. These black beauties have fake fur at the top and a stubborn zipper. But once on, they can take me places.
Down the snow-packed driveway, onto the slushy, icy street and finally to a more thoroughly plowed thoroughfare.
In the woods, trees were groaning and cracking. The snow was heavy, a burden for brittle branches, some of which gave way within earshot.
But on the street, it was a different story. You could see the trees from a safe distance, could view the whitened trunks, the felted ferns. The boots gave me traction and confidence. Without them, I would have missed the world transformed.
We had to wait a week or so, but we finally got our white Christmas.
In a weather reversal that matches anything in recent memory, we went from the balmy 60s yesterday to snow, sleet and cold today, with several inches of white stuff on the ground and more on the way.
I always think of snow as this blog’s true home. A Walker in the Suburbs began in a snow storm and flourished in one. It might not have come into existence at all were it nor for the windfall of time that flowed from Snowmaggedon.
Now snow is endangered, snow days, too. A work-at-home world does not grind to a halt just because we can’t scrape off the cars and drive to the office. A major disadvantage of telecommuting, in my opinion.
Who doesn’t need some days when the world goes away? Snow will give us those, if we let it.
It’s not quite 11 a.m. and almost 60 degrees this December 17. The forsythia is confused.
Yes, it lost its final leaves just two weeks ago, but the soft air and warm earth are belying the scant light, are sending messages of “why not” to the poor plant.
And what of us humans? Does it make sense to pack away the shorts and t-shirts, or should we just tuck them amongst the woolens? Are we navigating a new season here?
Not quite winter. Let’s call it winterish.
Say what you will about the cluttered house (and I’ve said plenty), but every so often it can surprise and delight you.
The other night, while looking for something in the closet, I jostled a tube of silver wrapping paper, which dislodged a spool of curling ribbon, which brought down an old envelope filled with photos and a note from my father-in-law, who’s been gone for almost 29 years.
What a gift this was, to hear again from this man who, even in the midst of his own illness was writing to share holiday photos and wisdom. The note was filled with appreciation for his home, his family, for the snow that had recently blanketed the woods around his house.
The delivery system may have been a bit unorthodox, but the message was simple: love life while you have it.
(A different snowfall, a different woods.)
I drove to Kentucky yesterday, following the new route through the mountains. For the first few hours, I took in the late-fall color on the gleaming hillsides. But by early afternoon, I had driven into the predicted cold front.
Dark clouds gathered above the huge windmills, and strong gusts sent leaves swirling and scudding across the highway. The rain started when I was at about 3,000 feet, lightly at first, then heavier by the time I reached the interstate.
It was not the bucolic drive I had in August, when I stopped to admire the mountain views. This was a no-nonsense-just-get-me-there kind of trip.
And it worked. I pulled into the driveway just as the last light was draining from the sky.
I had long remembered the essay I’m about to excerpt but didn’t have it at my fingertips until I found it in a battered file folder of clippings a few weeks ago. I can’t credit it to any one author; it was an editorial in the New York Times. But I’ve thought about it often this time of year, during these golden days of just enough warmth and just enough light, days of languid loveliness like the one we have right now, temperature not even 80, humidity no more than 40, cloudless sky.
Labor Day is really the beginning of a short season all its own, an in-between time, a month of not-quite-summer, not-yet-fall. That season, whatever you call it, often feels more like the new year than the New Year itself — new books, new exhibitions, new music, new commitments, and never mind that it has all been in the planning for months.
The city is full again and no longer in dishabille. The leaves are still green. None of the races, pennant or political, have been run to the wire just yet. Night closes in on both ends of day, and still on fair evenings the light seems to linger. The subways seem to exhale. ….
This is the time we should take off from work — only we never do — to watch summer and fall collide, to feel the sharp nights and the warm days, to walk through a garden that is ripening and dying all at once. In the country, a morning will come soon enough when all the gnats have disappeared, a sign that this short season is over.
Thunder and lightning woke me up last night — that and the stagnant air that collected after a power loss. It was long-predicted — the remnants of Hurricane Ida heading this way — but no less frightening.
To see a storm brewing on the horizon, to watch as clouds darken and loom, is one thing. To be roused from sleep by a thunderclap is something else altogether. I wondered about the roof, the gutters, the tall trees that cluster around the house. I felt at the mercy of the elements.
I told myself that all would hold, the joists and metal and soil. I told myself to enjoy the spectacle of it all. But I couldn’t fall back to sleep until the torrents had slowed, until the heavens turned dark again.
(Photo: Wikimedia Commons)