Rather than wallow in winter, this year I’ve made motions to celebrate and embrace it, to find its wonder and enchantment, and largely it’s worked: this season has been a boon to my mood despite the perceived (and sometimes actual) darkness at work in the world. Attribute it partly to meditation, partly to hygge, and partly to an appreciation of each and every day, even the gray ones. The alternative is not worth giving up the mental space. Besides, winter holds its exquisite magic close to its icy vest, and will only reveal it when you bow a bit in humility. I have no problem subjugating myself to wind and ice and snow, marveling and appreciating its strength and might, and admitting my powerlessness in the face of raw ruthlessness.
On my way home from my parents on a recent afternoon, I took the long route back, winding along the Mohawk River on the back roads rather than the Thruway, and on one such side road I pulled over as the sun started its daily descent. The wind was harsh and unrelenting, swirling snowdrifts on the field before me. I was in awe of the way it felt calm, even in the midst of its brutal force, the way beauty had of quelling the freezing temperature and wind-chill, of making me forget the cold, and in that moment a new appreciation was forged.
No field of green grass, even at its most fresh and dotted with dew, could ever reflect the blue sky the way a windswept field of snow can do. There is great recompense in that beauty. It erases any frigid discomfort, easing the oncoming darkness, lending a brilliance that is not present at any other time of the year.
