Winter

  

Walking out today, it feels like spring...freshly opened air, clear vision.

But it's winter, even on such a day that feels like a reprieve, a gift we can enjoy while we can.  We think of spring as hope...new growth, returning warmth, the freedom of the burgeoning outdoors after the huddle of icy months.  No wonder I am more buoyant.

Seasons have each their own personalities, though once in a while they indulge in a little alter-ego play.

Summer, those few months that used to mean children unfettered by time and school, is followed by Fall, the break from the oppressive heat, pretty colors against a deepening landscape, the breeze still light, still welcome.  We dress in sweaters and wrap ourselves in pumpkin festivals.

Illusions, all.

It's winter that holds the truth...trees bared of their fluttering decor, bone-chilling mornings, darkness that descends before our days are done.

Winter is the season of reality.  Nothing hidden except the roots of things to come.  We see ourselves as we are, unadorned, undistracted by dalliances, delusions.  We hunt, as does all of nature, for sustenance.

Around us, the foundation and structures that hold us in place become clear...the iced immobility of ground, the many-fingered limbs stark against impenetrable sky, abandoned nests (no longer safe from preying eyes) tangled in them, the outlines of crevices, once softened by glare, now sharpened by shadow.  Sunlight, slanted, stays long enough to give us new perspectives.

We may be lucky enough to hide from the cold, but not from ourselves.  Plainness is the virtue to hold to.  We face what we need to learn and to know.  To think about what is worth keeping, and what must pass on, or go.

Lying fallow, we do what we can to repair the damages of delusion and over-bearance.  We prepare to grow.