Part is me is chuckling that I can find this winter to be so pleasant.
I hate winter.
For many years I have believed that since my ancestors lived under a warm sun all year round, I just do not fit in here. The cold & grey tend to depress me after a while. My white skin makes me feel like a stranger in my own body. I anticipate the longer days & constantly yearn for July. I thought that the perfect answer was to pack up & leave this state for a warmer climate.
And maybe it would be awfully nice, but I've been reconsidering this magic bullet concept.
Becoming content, {and more importantly}, relishing in thankfulness, has changed me.
Can the fog become beautiful?
Can the cold inspire me to make this little cottage a cozy place?
Can the grey skies cocoon me in a thick layer of serenity?
Can the rain on pavement give even the smallest light a stage to illuminate & shimmer?
Can this season of winter bring forth just as much growth as the spring?
I used to acknowledge the grey as a one note tune.
Just an ugly mass of monotony.
I'm starting to see the nuances of pigment & light in this grey.
As my eyes adjust, it's like detecting another spectrum of color.
I'm finding there are notes so subtle you have to stop & press your ear to the Maker in order to hear them.
The depth of its potential is what I make of it. What I have the patience to notice.
I'm starting to carefully navigate my way through the obscurity of this fog.
Sometimes it is so thick that I stand on my tiptoes & try to catch a glimpse of the elusive horizon.
It still hides.
Soon it is quietly swallowed up in the darkness of the early night.
There is a mystery in the destination & I accept that I don't know what the future looks like.
I have simply concluded that if I can find my way in this place,
it is possible to be fond of it.
Kevin & Damian walking to Grandma's in the fog
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