Remembering Winter

When I was young, every winter my family gathered to a cabin to welcome the snow. I was fortunate to have been there.

There are those who would use this opportunity to go skiing. I used it for sledding, sculpting in ice, building tunnels, and just being there.

I remember the soft blanket of white that covered the ground. The mountains of powder that slowly melted into ice as the day wore on. The crunch of the crystals as I crafted shapes, figures, and voids in the icy winter clay.

It was cold outside; unforgiving. I felt vulnerable. My breath was icy and my face hot. I shivered despite the massive insulation I wore, but my excitement kept me moving. My skin was frozen and alive.

I've never been much for the outdoors, but I liked how it felt to be present there. I felt protected by the warmth of the fire. I felt the comfort of my family, together, not to fight but to enjoy the moment. I felt safe with my parents, who knew where to go, where to stay, and what to do in each new situation.

My mind lingers on these days when life made sense, but I see now that it never did. I'm still the same person I was, just older, angrier, and more cynical with time. But now, like then, I am still hopeful, searching, wondering.

Maybe those feelings of youth were not because the world was better, but because I was more willing to be surprised by what the world had to offer. Maybe I can feel that way again, if I can remember how life felt to be new.

A time of quiet, of respite, of renewal. A time of endings and a time of beginnings. Winter is my youth, and I remember it.