The bit of snow we had is running down the alleys.
It is once again Spring. In January. In Minnesota.
Even as I celebrate the lack of swaddle in going about these days, I’m thinking about what I am missing.
I miss the crackle of really cold air. Somehow, the crisp that instantly freezes noses brings with it clarity and a sense of being very alive.
Are the stars as brilliant? The hush that happens when snow blankets the ground seems to heighten awareness of the stars. When the world is true winter the basics somehow shine brighter.
And what have we Minnesotans to complain about? The self-congratulatory parlayed into a communal sense of getting through winter is missing. We seem a bit lost without it. Certainly we talk plenty about the weather – it’s so warm, so balmy! – but the chatter has lost a flavor I have come to realize I value: sanctified suffering.
And the chatter underneath the chatter? Worry.
Say what you will about how fine it is to celebrate a mild winter. I’ll join you. But what does this mean? What sorts of human abuses of this living thing called creation has prompted this warm? What does the summer hold with so little water on the earth? What have we wrought?
I am seeking to live the celebration that is now.
And, the questions will not leave me.