Before the first snowfall of the season, I always wonder how I am going to survive another winter without the vibrant colours of other seasons, and I feel a vague anxiety (sometimes sheer panic) thinking about the long, dark months to come. Shame on me for harboring such morose and mutinous thoughts. I should know better.
There are turnings and transformations everywhere: feathery ice archipelagos in highland rivers as they freeze over, icicles dangling from trees along the shore, field grasses poking their silvery heads out of drifts, melt water falling from the roof and freezing again in midair, fallen leaves with frosty grasses shining through them.
Everything my cronish eye lights on is food for notebook and lens, a fine thing since I am unable to wander as far as I once did. And there are many years of memories of winter rambles to revisit... I remember the hollow sound of the north wind moving down the gorge above the frozen lake, snow crunching pleasingly under my feet on the trail, the sussurus of flurries falling in the woods on a quiet day. I remember the sprucey fragrance given off by the snowbound evergreens in my favorite grove, how snowflakes tasted when I caught them on my tongue.
Absent the vibrant colors dancing on the earth's palette at other times, winter's gifts are paler hues, swirling shapes and glittering patterns. Each and every one is exquisite. Outdoors, the blues and golds on offer are sumptuous. Indoors, old window panes, heaps of books, bowls of fruit and cups of tea beckon. So does the sunlight coming through the window in a friend's farmhouse. I can do this.
2 comments:
Thank you!
Reading your words reminds me that the harshness of winter ahead is compensated by nature's subtle beauty. After all these years, I still need reminding. Thank you, dear Cate.
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