Winter Walk

Deep snow had fallen overnight and the morning broke clear and cold.

I lingered at the kitchen table with an extra cup of coffee as I watched the light shift and the sun come up. Sunrise in deep winter, with its bright pinks and streaks of yellow, feels like an affirmation from Mother Nature herself. Yes, the days are short and the landscape coated in shades of white and gray, but the skies are vibrant. There is bright life in the thickest days of winter.

With the sun up, I opened all the curtains and let it slant into the rooms of my house. We hadn't seen much sun in a while, and as I began my morning chores, I found myself stopping to look out and taking a few deep breaths.

Someone told me years ago that you get a better night's sleep in a bed that's been made-something about the feeling of tidiness and order helps you to drift off-so I'd made a habit of it, and it had become a kind of morning meditation. I did it the same way each time and took care with the process. I stacked the pillows on the armchair with a little ottoman in front of my bedroom window, where I sometimes sit and read, and I pulled back the duvet and sheet. I smoothed out the sheet underneath and pulled the blankets back up, walking around the bed and refolding and tucking the edges, then shaking out the pillows and plumping them back into place. I took a soft plaid throw that my kitty liked and swirled it into a nest and placed it at the foot of the bed for her. With curtains open and the morning light coming in, the room looked neat and inviting. I had a morning and an afternoon to enjoy but I was already looking forward to going to bed tonight.

With my chores done and the day becoming as warm and bright as it would likely get, I decided to bundle up and take a long walk in the fresh snow. I layered on a sweater and coat, thick socks and boots, a hat and scarf and gloves, and closed the back door behind me. As I began to walk, I looked out at the unbroken drifts of snow, at the peaks of old evergreens and the bare branches of maples stacked with a foot of snow. Winter walks are slow walks; you make your way carefully and a bit ploddingly, but they give you time for lots of thinking and noticing. Past the edge of the yard, I stepped onto a well-worn path and into thickening woods. I had a few acres, and this portion of my land backed up to more woods that were public lands, so I could walk for a long time and not run out of trees and wilderness. I remembered the winter walks I took with my family as a child. There was an empty lot at the end of the street and beyond it fields and clusters of trees, and while the whole thing was probably no bigger than a city block it felt like a secret land, a place where there was no end of exploring to be done. Children have this power, to look at something simple and everyday and imagine the wondrous.

I felt a growing warmth in my belly and chest from the exercise, and I inhaled deep breaths of the fresh air, letting it fill my lungs. The familiar paths looked new in the thick snow and I took a few turns, intentionally leading myself away from my usual route, knowing I could follow my boot prints back if I got turned around. I followed a frozen creek with just a trickle of moving water, and I walked past a thick grove of birch trees, their rippled white bark at home in the white winter, to an open meadow.

I had a sudden feeling that there was something there to see, so I stood still. She stepped out slowly from the trees across the field. A doe, tall and elegant. I guessed she'd seen me long before I was aware of her, but she'd trusted me and let me see her anyway. I was caught by her beauty...