Waist-Deep
in snow and my thoughts
This winter coastal Massachusetts welcomed back an old friend: snow. And so did I: rumination. Together, they mirrored each other perfectly.
The first few snowfalls were gentle, comforting, covering fresh pain and dying landscapes.
The accompanying thoughts, a dusting, light enough they too, could be swept away with a push broom.
As midwinter arrived, so did a new neighbor. His deep, reverberating hoots landing in the liminal space between comfort and foreboding. Then the storm arrived.
Where’s the shovel?
Who will I call if I need help?
Why am I alone again?
What if this is all my fault?
Maybe I’m cursed.
My thoughts turned as bitter cold as the air.
I can’t keep doing everything alone.
I don’t want to keep doing everything alone even if I can.
I’m not doing everything alone, technically.
But why does it feel that way?
As the snow fell, I frantically shoveled, fearful of ending up trapped.
A lesson I’ve learned over and over again repeated itself:
You can’t fight Mother Nature. And the more I fight thoughts, the louder they become.
Eventually the snow stopped, but my mind didn’t.
The waist deep-banks felt as constricting as my internal state, each causing its own physical discomfort. The ground was invisible, firm footing elusive.
The only sign of movement was snow turning contaminated, as I felt.
Eventually, drops appeared, only to freeze again in my dreams.
The days began to stretch longer, bringing reminders of what lay beneath the snow. Memories that grew with late spring and blossomed in summer.
Freeze, thaw.
Freeze, thaw.
With each cycle, a sliver of space was created, enough to quiet the thoughts.
The pent up energy in my body shifted.
Drops fell from my eyes, accompanied by the slow, methodical dripping from rooflines.
And now, as snow banks recede, the incremental progress and growth my mind was too cluttered to notice comes into view, like debris frozen alongside the roadside.
The bird song grows louder each day.
The shift of seasons is energetically undeniable, and with it comes the hope that maybe next year there will be someone else to pick up a shovel, or better yet, get snowed in with.
