It’s a strange March: we count icicles hanging dangerously off rooftops, some three-feet long and growing; we slide on ice and turn back with our chins tight to our chests as we endure bitter wind and drive to school instead; we think about hot chocolate and sleds.
But it’s all wrong. We had already, hadn’t we, seen the Northern Cardinal returning to the winterberry bush to build the annual nest. We had already rejoiced over the crocus and daffodils. We had already packed away snow boots and lined our flip flops up by the door.
I don’t want this gift of winter. Not now! But I also know better than to live in longing, confusion, or anger when life fails to deliver on any kind of expected promise. I know to scan the available landscape for beauty and wonder. I know what to do.
I know that the shadowy artwork in the backyard only comes with this material right here. It’s a stained glass moment, a little place of worship. There’s better light with snow reflecting. Everything shines. And I love it today even more than the green coming.