May 11, and the snow is falling in buckets. I have been watching it all day, heavy and wet, blanketing everything in thick white promise.
A few days ago we were wearing shorts and sunscreen, splashing around in the river, anticipating summer. Now I’m hauling out the shovel and snow boots.
Maybe I should be frustrated and annoyed. More winter? Haven’t we had enough? But I am filled instead with a strange, quiet gladness. Looking out the window, I sense this from the earth, too—she is offering herself up, accepting this cold blessing as a promise of what is to come. I can almost feel the soil greedily absorbing every snowflake. And the trees almost seem to be raising arms in praise as they are clothed in purest beauty. I can feel life pulsing, rejoicing, ready to burst through into eternity. The bird singing in the tree outside my window feels it, too.
We will plow and shovel, wade through slush and slop, deal with the ensuing mud and mess, putting away the shorts for another day. In a few days this quiet gift will be gone and the world will come roaring and spitting back to life around me. But it will be softer, greener, more robust and alive than ever.
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