Monday, February 24, 2014
I've spent weeks (months? years? Has this winter lasted years?!) avoiding the bitter outdoors...scurrying to get out of the cold as fast as I could when it was necessary I go out in the first place. Scurry to the van. Scurry to the house. Scurry to the barn and back again. Rebecca scurries in winter.
This weekend, when the temperatures rose to mid-to-upper 40's I could barely contain my excitement. Snow drifts as high as my thigh in some places and melting snow turned into lakes in others, I couldn't take my usual jaunt from woods path to frog pond, up the hill, past the secret cabin because I couldn't get past the water hole. Every angle I took, every attempt around was met by too-deep water and collapsing snow.
Undeterred, I turned myself around and headed down the dirt road lining the lower pasture. The one by the beautiful lake where ice-fishers huddle and the big tree looms by its' lonesome, majestic. Where the snow drifts form layers of snowstone and the snow meets the sky and I follow the wanderings of deer.
There wasn't a single sign of spring anywhere...not a single hint of new life (though I secretly dreamed of seeing a bulging bud or spike of premature green poking up somewhere)...
but the fresh air filling my lungs
and the blue skies above (bluer than I've seen in every so long!)
and the babbling of water over stones
and the creaks of the swaying trees...
did make me feel more alive than I have in quite some time.
I realized, for the first time in a long time, I was lingering. And it was so, so good.