From somewhere beneath a snow mound north of D.C., a friend in Montgomery County, Md., writes:
We got 30″ of snow! It’s crazy here! The universe is telling us: SLOW DOWN. You are not in control!
Read the daily headlines and you know she’s right. This is the time of year when the dour drumbeat of negative news meets the dreariness of too little sun and too little sensory stimulation. It’s the time when I miss the fragrance of lilacs, the taste of a ripe peach, the smell of fresh cut grass, the look (at my age, that’s it) of the opposite sex wearing something stylish and maybe a tad revealing.
I miss, too, the sound of something other than the cold wind that’s now whistling through my sixth-story office window. I miss the sense of life renewed, of rebirth, of the hope and promise that is always Spring.
On this eighth day of February, I can’t much hope for the crocuses to break through the frozen ground anytime soon. But my friend Heather’s note leaves me with a little hope. Let the heaven’s dump, late at night, when Kathy and I are both safe at home. Let it snow so hard that we can’t open the door, that we have no choice but to build a fire and read a book, or, better yet, go back to bed, pull up the covers and sleep for, say, two months.
Now that would truly be grand.