It was 63 degrees today. I spent every moment of daylight (that I was awake) sun bathing. Then, even after the sun went away, I couldn't bare being inside so I went for a night walk. I remembered then how much I use to love walking at night. It is exquisite.
The glittery night sky above and a gentle blue haze all about, it is transportive. I nearly wept feeling the warm wind and breathing in the pungent, freshly-melted-snow scent. All day I praised God for the warm weather. I adore it, I adore it, I adore it.
Today, I came to a piece of honesty about myself. I have discovered that much of life is coming to truths like this. Mine today was that I hate winter. I despise it. My tendency is to think of myself as an empathetic person who enjoys most things so I have told myself that I like all seasons. But this is not true. I do not like cold weather. For years, I believed that since my favorite drink is hot tea that I should appreciate cold weather because tea is more enjoyed when it is cold. Not true. Tea is just as heavenly in cool temperatures, even hot temperatures, as in cold, freezing winter. Why did I think that I had to like winter? I suppose it seems shallow and unkind to right off a whole season. But I can now except that it is not my gift, not my calling, to love this season. Let another part of the body do this.
I become bitter in frosty air; angry, even. Is there anything charming about having to wear a hat to bed or waking at 6 a.m. to dense pitch black surroundings and witch-wand thin air that makes you cough? No. Never.
True, cuddling in front of a fire is fun and romantic but that is a pleasure so rarely experienced during the whole duration of that thing called by the French L'Hiver that I cannot concede four months of happiness to it. I'll go on vacation if I am so desperate for my numb extremities to be thawed by a fire.
I like fall and spring and summer, but not winter.
Bless the day!
