Oh, Sorry, March. I Didn't Know It Was You.

Somehow, it's March. I didn't realize this fact because when I measure weeks by my husband is home from work-- it must be Saturday, I tend to lose track of the greater scope of time. I beg your indulgence; I do know exactly how blessed I am to be able to lose track of what day it is, let alone what month. I know how abnormal and serendipitous my ability to look out the window at the snow and think pretty instead of road hazard is. So, for my part, I forgot it was March and was perfectly content to watch the ice lightly coat the trees before the snow softly enveloped the ground on Sunday.

I've been listening to everyone abuse winter for a while now--how they hate it and want it over, how they'd dance nekkid under the full moon if it meant they could bring spring early. (Okay, I haven't heard anyone say that, but I'm pretty sure they were thinking it.) Shoot the messenger if you want. (Most people enjoy shooting messengers.) For me, the snow is still sunlight's winter playground and ice still transforms the sand cherry tree into a magical plant that grows diamonds when it's cold out.

 

There's a quote at the top of this blog, just under that title. I'm relatively sure most of you haven't read it (shame on you) but go do so now. While I'm completely aware of the uniqueness of my situation, I'm still going to seize this opportunity to say that I hope you make chances, whenever and wherever you can, to enter the other worlds that are all around you.

It is so easy to forget, even in my charmed life, what the point of all the work is. We live in a time and place where we're not desperately chasing our day-to-day survival. Yet we have bills to pay, and sometimes it seems like that's all we accomplish. Sometimes it seems like there's never any room to breathe, never anything left over after the bills are payed. I get that. I feel that, too. Joe Walsh, singer and sage, said, "I can't complain, but sometimes I still do." I confess, that is me. 

But then days like Sunday happen. God coats the trees in tiny, temporary diamonds. He scatters rainbows around like confetti when the light hits the snow flakes just so here and there. I walk into the woods just across the road and it seems like a place I haven't been before. Even the cold tensing my facial muscles seems to be telling me to smile. I breathe deeper, and more freely. It ceases to matter that I can't afford to go have a shrimp dinner at O'Charley's, or that I have to think twice or three times before spending twenty bucks on a new pair of jeans. I can even forget that I have cars to feed, repair, and insure, which are always alternately making believe they are boat anchors waiting to be put to sea. I'm surrounded by clean air, thaumaturgic newness, and my sons, and I think This is the point of all the hours spent on laundry or cleaning or chores or scheming ways to save a buck or commuting or at work an hour and a half away. Not so we can afford something or other, but this. This.

This.