When the winter comes with rain, I greet it with eyes open, marveling at each puddle. I embrace the banks of fog distorting, no, enchanting the still-green earth. I like chubby clouds and the weighty atmosphere before a downpour and glitter-dropped Douglas firs after. And Christmas — oh yes, Christmas: that promise of tinsel nights and cranberry laughter, incarnate love, the infamous carolers who never actually knock on your door but you listen for their jingling footsteps anyway.
I don’t shy away from winter. I don’t huddle from the rain. So I can’t say why one morning (though not the one before and maybe not the next) I wake up with melancholy thicker than that sinister slab of sky. I can’t say why everything is fine until everything is dead, why sadness looms like booming clouds. Why suddenly that little hill of laundry looms higher than Kilimanjaro, and surely getting out of bed, even in the afternoon, merits some lifetime achievement award?
I don’t know if it’s the weather but it just might be. And I know this too shall pass, maybe at the new year, maybe with this cold front, maybe after dinner. Tomorrow may be gay and bright and lovely all again, with sparkling evergreens and umbrella-sheltered cheer. I know this. I am blind but I believe.
When the winter comes with rain, I remind myself it’s just a season, a few cold dark days in the tomb before springtime resurrection.
I am not afraid of darkness, just tired, very tired.
But today I did some laundry, and tomorrow is one day closer to the sunlight of May.