Underneath my gray coat, sweat builds. I step out into the December air, and suddenly feel the fingers of cold reach down my back, and touch me where I feel most. Cold.
I reach out into my car and turn on the air. Cold.
This is the way Minnesota will be for at least 5 more months. Cold, cold, cold.
It’s all I have ever known though: I think I forget about it every year, because every year, spring comes, blossoms bud, animals are born, and promises of something better arrive. I can only faintly remember the strong scent of sweet, syrupy apricot blossoms in the orchard, the hum of busy bumblebees, and the distant hum of the mower. Those days.
Warm. Warm sunshine kissing my face. Warm sunshine in the morning, waking me up, spewing its golden rays across the meadows, and the cornfields, and my tiny patch of garden.
Warm.
The music I heard back them was of the morning birds, who were happy to be alive. I heard the song of the cricket and the harsh buzz of the cicada bug. I heard the song of summer; a melody of color, and harmony, and beauty, and warmth.
It’s not just clanging Christmas bells I hear now, or ‘winter wonderland’ played 1000 times on the radio, but it’s the sound of quiet too. The animals have left. The bugs and birds and bees have gone into hiding. Their songs are muted for now. Even the sun is hiding; oh, it’s still there. It’s just lost its goldenness and warmth. Somehow, even the sun is cold.
Now, I have to turn on the warmth; turn on the heat in my car and the small space heater at work. I have to drink earl gray tea and remember to pack my gloves before going to work. I have to TRY and see beauty, whereas, before it was just there. Just there for me to reach out and touch. Now, it is a conscious effort.
So I consciously reach out for warmth. It’s hard and somedays, I tire of it. I miss the bees, and buds and blossoms. I even miss the mud, and mosquitos. With everything good comes something you don’t want. Nothing is perfect. No, only God Jehovah is good and perfect.
So, I sit with my earl gray and my memories of warmth. I look at my plants in the window and quietly whisper, “only 5 more months, kiddos. Just be patient. Warmth will come soon enough.”
The Silent Storyteller 