Wind swirling in tornadoes as high as the towering pines, gusts so fierce the wind chimes beg for mercy, temperatures dip and chimneys puff and the land smells of cold linen and warm fire, leaving you on edge with expectation, just as much as it comforts you with a crackling peace. These boys of mine, who are use to the warm lands of the south, they didn’t remember what an angry cold wind feels like on chapped lips, nor understand how it can dry your eyes, and numb your nostrils in an instant. They have some adjusting to do. While Miles is four and capable and willing to do just about anything with the knowledge that hot cocoa follows the task, you can tell even he is taken aback with this type of take your breath away cold air. Just a bit at least. Rowan is more blatant about the whole thing. With all those thick layers stacked onto already teetering legs it is difficult to not walk with a one step, two step, tumble down, get up rhythm. But he puts forth the effort, and when he has had enough and the tears start rolling down, I heave the man-child onto my back and he moans in pain at the frozen drops off water burning trails into his cheeks. But his belly warms my back, and my back his belly, and we keep searching out prints in the snow. We look for scrapes from leaves or fairy trails or large unidentifiable tracks that will just as soon be buried in the windy snow, so we don’t bother with books for our gloved fingers can’t turn the pages anyways.
I believe snow was made to be white to bring some contrast to these dark days; To blind you with its icy sheen to make up for lost light; To shock you into remembering there is more than a warm fireside, even though it really is so much; To give you a reason to explore even when all your limbs tell you not today.