This morning was our first commute of the snow season. Like most mornings, the natural state of affairs is rushed as my youngest and I leave the house. But, given the weather conditions, I am aware of how cautious I must be in order to make it to the car.
I decided to wear my normal office shoes to work, rather than my heavier snow boots. I figured I was taking a chance walking down our now icy path to the driveway but if I could make it, it would be clear sailing the rest of the day until my return.
I gently tossed clay rose petals before me in an effort to appease Skadi, the Norse Goddess of skis and snowshoes as we slowly slid closer to the car (ok, I was throwing kitty litter). My daughter decided she was ice skating. That’s good. I’ve learned if you actually think you might fall your balance is more in sync with the slippery conditions and you can regain your equilibrium more easily.
When we got to the car I suddenly became aware of a bird singing. It was dawn and I stopped right in my tracks to take it in. It sounded like a regular sort of bird to me (can you tell I’m not an orthinologist?). And suddenly I remembered spring. I didn’t recall a memory of spring. Rather, my body remembered what it felt like.
As I slip from one season to the next, my body’s memory of the past goes into hibernation, only to be reawakened the next season. And so I had completely forgotten what it was like to walk outside on a spring or summer morning to experience the sounds, the color, and the smells. It always puts me in a good mood—a great one really.
Winter, by contrast, is usually much more muted.