I’m looking out the window on this first full day of spring and can’t help but chuckle. It’s snowing. It won’t be enough to stick, but that doesn’t matter. Winter never fully developed this year. Our snowfall wasn’t much more than half our normal. On many days over the last three months, we went outside wearing light jackets or sweatshirts.
And now, on the first day of spring, it’s snowing.
Maybe this is winter’s way of saying, “I know I haven’t really been myself this year, but now it’s time to go.”
Here’s my response.
Goodbye, winter. I wish we could have spent more time together. You seemed to be present for only a few weeks here and there. You got really cold a couple of times, but the cold never lasted. You gave us a paltry amount of snow by our Central New York standards, but more memorably, you drenched us with heavy rains that caused flooding and ice that was so thick and stubborn it couldn’t be moved. I like you when you are yourself, deadening the mechanical noise of the world with heavy blankets of snow. I missed having you around consistently. I never got the chance to really hibernate with you. I’ve come to enjoy burrowing down between the high snow banks, drinking hot tea and warming myself by the fire, alone with you, a good book, and my thoughts. A couple of times, I began to settle into that quiet place, but then you disappeared, and I felt cheated. I’ve come to depend on you to nurture my winter spirituality, a season that I did not always recognize or appreciate.
I don’t really blame you for not being yourself this year. You were at the mercy of an external force – they call it “El Nino” – that disrupted your rhythm and caused you to frequently recede much farther north, out of reach of that tropical troublemaker. I can sympathize with you. My best self is obscured, as well, when I feel battered by circumstances outside my control. To protect myself, I hide. I suppose we all do that. It’s just a natural reaction. But I want you to know that you are missed when you are not fully present.
Yes, I know, there are people who say really mean things about you. They even claim that, if they could, they would pack up and go almost anywhere else to avoid you. They say they grow tired of you. But I already know what it’s like to dwell in a climate where the seasons are diminished. In the waning weeks of fall, I look forward to your arrival, and though you sometimes grow harsh, I still cherish how you awaken my senses to all the seasons. I love how vivid and special each of your siblings becomes because you are so fully on display when it’s your turn. You have heightened my awareness of the many shades of green in the trees, the many depths of blue in the sky, every bud at the end of every branch, every flower that pops up from the wet soil, every variety of bird from tiny chickadees to majestic eagles that grace the sky and fill the air with their calls, all manner of wildlife from chipmunks to squirrels to rabbits to red foxes to deer that run across the wooded paths I follow, and that glorious deciduous display of red, orange and yellow as the sun’s angle lowers and the days grow short, preparing for your return.
Don’t listen to those who do not understand you. Don’t stay away next year. El Nino will not taunt you again for a while. I will enjoy the other seasons as best I can, but don’t ever forget that when you share yourself fully, you make them better. Not only that, but you also reveal your own incomparable beauty, even if others are too distracted or embittered to recognize it.
You, like spring, summer, and fall, are a creation of God. Enjoy your time down below the equator, but don’t ever forget that those of us who know you at your best will always welcome your return.
©2016 by J. Mark Lawson
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