Three more inches of snow.
Yesterday it was five.
The day before it was also five. It’s been the wet, heavy snow - the kind that feels like concrete. Great for making a snow fort if you’re a kid, but shoveling it can kill you if your heart is bad. It’s also the kind of snow where snowshoes are mandatory for the daily dog romps and property inspections.
My body hurts. I’ve spent the bulk of the last two days wrestling with a fussy 200 pound, two-stage snow blower and trying to maintain proper form when shoveling. Just bending down to buckle the snowshoe straps feels like more than I’m capable of this morning.
As I begin my shuffle, I can’t help but take in the beauty of the trees decked out in their snowy capes. On the first day it snowed, which feels like forever ago, I felt a lightness as I shuffled around the grounds while the dogs bounded enthusiastically, making new trails through fresh snow blankets. I was probably thinking of another day - one just about five years ago - when I first entered this magical place and felt my heart burst with joy. Even as the land sat dormant, clutched in winter’s frosty grasp, I knew immediately there was nowhere else I wanted to spend my next chapter. It was love at first sight.
Five years ago, I imagined a life here that I now worry I cannot sustain. Cracks have developed in this body that houses my spirit and boundless imagination. Just this week, several “unusual” findings during a routine exam rocked my sense of physical wellbeing and security. Then the snow kept falling. Branches started breaking. In other nearby places, entire trees fell, some taking powerlines down with them. In the big outside world, a celebrity, whom I had long admired as a joyful genius, succumbed to suicide at age 40.
I study the trees. The weeping willows bear the snow gracefully before their flexible branches bend to allow the snow to glide right off. The young crabapples, while less substantial, refuse to buckle under the weight of the snow, instead, they wait for a breeze to blow it off. The pines, big and strong, wear their snow caps almost arrogantly. They’re not going down. At least not this week. The old elms are a different story. I pick up branches which have fallen on the trail and move them aside. I ponder other branches hovering precariously over the driveway. Will this be the day they break?
It wasn’t that long ago, I considered myself a sturdy pine. Have I turned into an old elm? Will this be the day I break? Or will it be tomorrow? Next week? Next year?
The thing about my future, or anyone’s future for that matter, is it isn’t known, nor is it guaranteed. I return to the house and as I bend over to unbuckle my snowshoes, I succumb to tears, taking the time to really feel sorry for myself. And for no good reason except that my body hurts. It feels really good, as if the tears are providing a sort of relief valve.
Like the snow sliding off the weeping willows…
Oh!
This is beautiful and vulnerable.
Sharing, writing…it’s all healing. Hugs my friend.