I don’t know about you, but I’m waiting for things to thaw around here. No matter how much I love winter, I reach a point when I start longing for things to turn green, for the days to grow longer, for my focus to move outward.
In the winter, it’s easy to go inward. To think and sleep and read and ponder. To contemplate the heck out of stuff. To wear lots of layers. Watch more movies. Eat more chocolate. To miss the light.
Then, we reach the day when the clocks spring forward. Evenings stay light for just a little longer and the gutters drip water, the song birds sit at the edge of the garden wall.
Right now, we’re in the ice and mud stage. The dogs love it. Throwing the ball into deep snow can be futile for all involved. But, running through mud and wet grass, well, this is a canine’s dream. We’re in that sloppy in between phase of winter, where spring teases us for a day or so, and then everything freezes over again. And then it snows. Again. I wish I could muster the same enthusiasm for mud and ice like the dogs do.
It’s hard to look at my gardens right now and remember how vibrant they were during the summer. Winter heavy and collapsed, they also wait in the in-between place.
One of my clients told me this week that she felt like it was perpetually Groundhog Day where she lives in the Midwest. “It’s six more weeks to something. Just not sure what.” A neighbor said that getting to the gym felt like dragging his feet through heavy slush. Literally and figuratively in this case.
So, what is it we’re waiting for in this in-between place? The big thaw? The promise of spring? A change of heart? Something different?
For me, I’m waiting for traction. One thing I know for sure is that the changes outside mirror the changes inside. I can feel things stirring. As the snow comes and goes and begins to melt, it’s nearly impossible to imagine everything staying the same.
I’m looking forward to a new season, even though I can’t quite imagine it yet. I’m looking forward to planting things in the ground, renewed friendships, laughing out loud on the porch, taking in the light.
In her book, Tiny Beautiful Things, Cheryl Strayed reminds us: “Just close your eyes and remember everything you already know. Let whatever mysterious starlight that guided you this far guide you onward into whatever crazy beauty awaits.”
Here’s to thawing out and the crazy beauty that awaits.
—Dawn
The Big Thaw