I have to admit something.
Yesterday morning when I crept to my car, I actually enjoyed seeing snow--white tipped trees, fluff on the sidewalk grass, crystalized formations on my windshield.
As much as I've traditionally despised winter--as much as I usually complain about it and curse it--I'm conditioned to expect it, to tolerate it even. I'm conditioned to find my own sense of brightness beneath dreary, gray skies. I'm conditioned to hide my silhouette inside bulky sweaters, and tuck my toes inside thick, warm boots. Heck, I'm conditioned to complain about blahness and coldness and misplacing my mittens.
But this year, I haven't been able to do any of that. This year, I've spent my time waiting. Waiting for the inevitable explosion of white ice. Waiting for the gruesome gust of coldness. Waiting for the 60 degree days and the sunshine skies to shatter and break like glass across the earth's harsh floor.
And missing out on the sharp brilliance of the present. A present I would have appreciated a thousand times more if I stopped to consider the possibility that once the very thing I have been dreading arrived, it would actually be quite nice.