My Autumn, My Winter

I never was much of a summer person. Even during school years, when every kid in their right mind was just itching for the last bell on the last day of school, my mind and body hyper-focused on the discomfort of the heat. I remember how the sweat on the back of my neck would dampen the light blue butterfly collar of that stiff school uniform. My head feels light just thinking about the Fourth of July parades, where I sweltered under paper streamers, clammy hands stained with their red and blue dye. Of course, there were lots of things to love about summer—sleeping in, long days, the ice cream truck. But was it ever my season? No, not at all.

As the days would shorten near the end of August, I would look forward to wearing the old uniform. Shopping for fresh school supplies could erase any sour memory of the year before. There is still nothing quite like a brand new blank notebook. Those and empty sketchbooks beg for creativity and promise rewards.

Autumn’s greatest gift was the relief from summer heat. Crisp windy days fell into inky dark nights. The air felt different, it smelled different. I felt different. Fall was my Spring—time for rebirth, for reinvention.

I suppose that’s been an ongoing theme in my life, in this journal. Changing colors, losing leaves to the wind, going bare, digging deep roots for survival through rain, sleet and snow. I’m not sure why the anticipation of winter pleases me so much more than the beginning of summer. The characteristics of the season are harsh and unforgiving. It’s not the holidays, it’s not even my birthday (ok maybe a little) for which I grow impatient. Snow. I crave snow.

The first signs of its arrival—heavy charcoal clouds, its faint, distant scent—stir a certain level of giddiness in me that nothing else can. If I were still in Colorado, I’d already have slid and skied in it by now. I’ve been trying desperately not to dwell on that, which means I’ve been thinking about it constantly.

You can take the snowbird out of the snow, but you can’t take the snow out of the snowbird.

*begin snow dance*