Winter was always the sad season, and as much as I have tried to learn to embrace it, it remains the season of somber sobriety. I’m not minding that as much this year. Finding the way to an acceptance of it is an important part of looking over the edge of middle age. If one’s life is divided into seasonal sections, mine is about to surrender summer to fall.
That is the only certain precursor to winter.
And so I hunker down, getting busy with the emotional tasks at hand, while outside the snow and wind rages, interspersed with brilliant bits of blue sky and white sun. Shadows elongate, yet so too does the daylight, growing a little longer with each passing week. Without hurry or rush, the days and weeks unfold as they will. With a deep breath, and a patient, measured exhalation, I lean into winter.
