This undeniable beauty though is something I prefer to enjoy through the window.
I’ve done some snow-shoeing, cross country skiing, but I was never anxious to rush outside to fling myself down and create a snow angel, to pull on boots and crunch though the fresh powder.
Spending the first 20-plus years of my life in a country where we did not experience the amount of snow I’ve tried to adjust to since living in Canada, did not prepare me for months of cleaning off the car and clearing the driveway several times a day, for making decisions about holding or cancelling classes, for putting off an exploration of a new gallery or cafe.
But my artist’s eye and writer’s pen still find pleasure and visual delight in the pristine, breath-catching views. Watching new shapes appear; as planters become overnight giant rounded orbs, as icicles fringe the roofline, bird houses add a thatch of snow and our white outdoors wreath is encircled.
Our wrought iron Kokopelli disappears, still playing his flute, into his un-Hopi igloo. In legend he melts the winter snows to create rain so the seeds he scatters each spring will flourish.
That is the promise I hold close during these months, that beneath the downy blanket the tulip bulbs are regenerating, hostas deepening their roots, peonies feeling the surge of new life. Every spring I marvel as plants and shrubs that were buried under heavy plough-swept snow, once again emerge green and strong, vibrant with perfume and colour. Another visual and sensual delight; one I will fling open windows and doors and rush to embrace.
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