February has arrived in Atlanta, with weather patterns that are inexplicable to anyone who lives north of the Mason Dixon line. Or for that matter, south of I-16, where the pecan trees give way to Spanish moss and sandy soil, and there are two seasons- humid and unbearably humid. Two days after a chilly Super Bowl Sunday, flower pots still crusted over with ice, we welcomed blue skies and shirt sleeve weather. The frogs have ventured out of the mud and organized a hopeful chorus, and the itinerant flocks of geese circle patiently above, calling to the stragglers that the stopover is at an end and the journey continues. I’m not sure why every year I am surprised by the scent of damp earth baking in the sun, or the blooms on the Lenten Roses, but I am, and it is always a pleasant surprise.
I enjoy the beauty of the occasional snow, but freely admit I wouldn’t last long in a climate where the summer clothes come out in July and my height falls short in inches to the average monthly snowfall. In the mountains over the weekend, I saw a teen-aged boy walking along the road in a sweatshirt and shorts. It was after all a balmy 29 degrees and the sun had decided to make a showing; still, you had to admire his fortitude. I hope he did not get frostbite in exchange for his enthusiasm. As short and mild as winter is in the south, our tendency to complain and rush it along must be comical to our northern neighbors.
Like that boy, I am tempted to get out the potting soil and garden gloves, to banish the frost and coax the robins to return. Today the rain brought thunder along with it, but I am sure that in spite of the daffodils pushing out of the soil, I would be unwise to either trim back the roses or put away my warm clothing. Winter is an exercise in patience, even for us southerners, but it serves an important purpose and brings its own unique gifts. The dormancy of winter is a necessary part of the natural cycle for renewal. It drives us inside and inward seeking shelter. While the darkness is more prolonged and intense during winter, the stars seem to shine more brightly and the clear air produces remarkable displays at sunset that we don’t always see during the haze of summer. I enjoy visiting tropical places, but I am glad to live where “to everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose.” I depend on the cycle, the pattern, to orient myself. Following are a few brief “winter thoughts.”
From my journal, dated 2/3/17:
There is a cold wind today. It fills the space between solitude and restlessness, chasing me from my porch rocker into the quiet warmth of the barn loft, as the light of another day fades too quickly. I braved the cold to watch the golden clarity of the winter sunset, fortified under two layers of well worn quilt, a hot mug in one hand. It was good to breathe the biting air; feel it sharp and fresh against my face.
So quiet. Nothing but the steady tone of the garden chimes and a distant hum of airplanes hovering in patterns high above, coming and going, disappearing into the blue twilight. Across the field, from above, I see the halo of my mother’s kitchen window, and I picture her at the table, reading quietly or listening to music, enjoying a simple meal. Tomorrow I will go to her; we will visit, talk and laugh. But tonight I keep company with the near silence, listening for what it might share in whispers.
Today my mind was in every direction, like scattered leaves in a whirling gust. I came here to be still, to stand watch over the hills below as the barren gray of the sleeping woods turns to a finely carved silhouette against a clear night sky. I desire to see more, to understand, but the darkness swells with the song of the chimes. The outline of my mother’s house has vanished, yet her kitchen window glows golden, floating between the earth and sky, a beacon for shelter and rest.
