We have not had a winter quite like this one here in New England in a very long time. A storm has arrived on a Sunday as consistently as a preacher to the pulpit. Unrelenting below freezing temperatures have solidified snow in mountainous piles. Icicles reach for the ground and triumphantly hit their mark. It has been compared to living North of the Wall, Ice Planet Hoth, Elsa’s Ice Castle…no one dares hum a bar of her unspeakable anthem. It’s no joke in and around Boston.
I grew up just south of Boston in a busy suburb which is now even busier. Congested. When I go back I drive directly to my parents’ house. On top of a hill hidden from the neighborhood below, my childhood home is surrounded by acres of mostly untouched woodland. It is lush in summer and a wonderland in the winter; bursting in spring and vividly crisp in the fall. Fragrant year round.
Buried under six feet or more of snow it is treacherous at first site, but once you realize you can not fight mother nature, it returns to being magical. Even mystical.
Most folks are cringing at the idea of more snow coming this weekend. I can not stop it from coming. So I may as well sink into it’s rhythm. Instead of digging my heels in and tensing, I am trying to take my time and float as slowly as possible through these next few days, weeks, months of winter.