Mindful Living: Winter in Vermont

Deep in the Vermont winter, friends and foes alike whimper about the ice, the snow, the cold. “Stop the whining,” I reply, “and throw on a warm coat already!” As I see things, being cold is way easier than being hot. After all, you can always add another layer of socks, but an air conditioner cannot always be had. All that summertime heat and sweat makes me itchy.

Bottom line is, I adore winter. I love crisp cold mornings, when I brush the snow off my car and it sprays across the breeze. I love stepping out into the field of frozen grass by my house, feeling the blades crunch and crackle under my boots. I love to turn my face to a low winter sun, and breathe air that seems cleaner, lighter than summer.

When I was little, winter was more painful because I actually had to walk places, and my toes turned into ice cubes in minutes. No quantity of mittens and scarves and extra socks could save me from the rip and roar of a winter wind. Fortunately, these days the longest walks are from my car to the house, barely enough time to whistle “dashing through the snow” before my toes are toasty again. Maybe that’s why the pains of winter have eased, it’s just a matter of short timing. I’m no winter baby anyway. I don’t ski, or snowboard, or snowshoe, or any of that cool stuff. I did think the Vermont spirit would claim me and I’d be on the slopes in no time, but a natural inclination toward my computer commands my winter and summer both.

Yet it was a winter’s night outdoors when I first heard a whisper of wind, the voice of spirit that ultimately brought me here to stay. It was eight years ago and I was living in San Diego, a winter-free place if ever there was one. I had come to a crossroads in my life, whereupon my friend Todd proposed that I move to Vermont. “You always did love it here you know,” he said with a wicked grin. He also told me that Vermont offered a “finders fee” of $50 to people who brought new residents in, which he would get. (I actually believed this for quite a while). So I decided to come visit at the beginning of January, 1991. I chose January because I figured if the snow thing freaked me out, well then I’d just stay in San Diego and work on my tan. We attended First Night, and my tootsies felt just like when I was a kid, like little blocks of ice. Undaunted, I bought warmer boots.

One night, I prowled outside to get a breath of air. The sky was lit up with stars, and the trees sparkled with ice. My breath made a plume of mist that echoed in the moonlight. And there, all alone in a Barre apartment parking lot, I heard a still small voice. A voice that called me to live here.

Move to Vermont? Was I cracking up? I had a beautiful home in San Diego. Friends and sunshine in abundance. A life I’d spent ten years solidifying. Still, there was no question about what to do. I bought a snazzy wool coat and wore it as a leap of faith until a year and a month later when I showed up on Todd’s doorstep. February. Really cold. I didn’t care. I figured out the wood stove, and alternately froze and cooked in the loft above. I sprinkled bags of rock salt on the steps, but no amount of salt could break up the ice rink down to the road. I bought more socks.

Now, seven winters later, and still there is no doubt. Dispite a changing economy that wreaked havoc on my career. Dispite a thousand tentative steps across icy parking lots, and waiting four hours for a jump, and facing down a four foot high pile of snow from a snowplow long gone. Dispite the fact that I still miss the laserium in San Diego. Dispite everything, it is winter that brought me here and winter that feeds my soul until spring.

Copyright January, 1999

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