WINTER

I feel confused in this warm weather. I keep thinking it’s spring. It smells like spring. What year is it? And how old am I, anyway?

I felt winter, this year, for an insubstantial amount of time. And therefore, I don’t feel like I’ve earned this balmy weather, with its gentle fragrances. I haven’t spent those inhospitable months bundled up, longing for warmth and release. I just boarded a plane and landed here.

A friend and I were talking yesterday about regional differences among people. Areas of this country have their stereotypes for a reason. Why are New Englanders so tough and capable? And Midwesterners so down-to-earth? People from the Northwest make good company. And why? Because they experience seasons. Winters, in particular.

Every place has its different story. Southern California feels good, like a romantic comedy. Sure it’s unrealistic and fluffy, but the people are pretty—lots of smiling, nice teeth—no thinking required. Sit back; enjoy the show. (Throw in some guns and Republicans and you have Phoenix.) The South is like that too, with the added elements of humidity and backwards.

Texas is Texas.

The Midwest and northern regions are the Oscar winners. There is substance in four distinct seasons and the trees change color in the fall. Those who reside in such areas navigate the course provided by nature and experience the metaphor of being human, where we are born, grow mature, wane, and die. We experience symbolic deaths and rebirths many times throughout our lives, most obviously with seasons.

It’s winter. The sun is shining in a blue sky, birds are chirping, the people wear flip-flops and t-shirts. There is no grounding for the soul during winters like this. There is no cozy conversation, no introspection. I’m making things.

I wanted this. Retreating to warmth for the winter is an option. I wanted to try it out. I might even do it again. It does, however, require some adjustment.

I long for a fire by which I can sit and read, and a sled ride. I want to eat stew and drink red wine. But they are the rewards for those who endure the layers of clothing—the extra five minutes it takes to get out the door, hunched shoulders, the car in the morning—with it’s frosty windshield and impossible chill. For the ones who delay gratification until next season or next year, when the timing is right, and hide away in living rooms and talk—as if speak is the only thing to keep them warm—secrets will be revealed, and characters chiseled. It is during winter that the unknown is discovered in those with patience.