Bearing the Weight

 Bearing the Weight of winter

Eighth consecutive day of frigid weather, and more of the same in all forecasts. On most of the past seven days we have struggled to reach the twenties, and most barely crept above zero. The effect is cumulative. The first storm brought light, almost weightless snow that was almost a delight to shovel (My snowblower refused, and still refuses, to start, and without a place to work on the problem will likely remain inoperative for the remainder of the winter). Shoveling snow is therapeutic.

But the ephemeral fairy snow was soon followed by a succession of freezing rain and sleet events which have now constructed a carbon-steel covering over everything. It is impossible to shovel, and fruitless to chip at with a pick-ax. We are obviously not going anywhere for several more days. I only hope the roof can hold the accumulating weight.

When I was younger, up until my late seventies, I considered such atmospheric assaults a challenge. I loved the feel of sub-zero wind flinging itself against my face, and the tingling sensation in my fingers and toes as they began to freeze conjured images of nordic music. Of course the warmth of the nearby house was only a few long yards away. But, this continued cold has finally seeped into and through the house foundation, and when my under-house thermometer reaches the mid thirties I turn on a small electric heater. Thankfully I can program myself to wake whenever necessary. But if the power ever goes out for any length of time I’m not sure what I will be able to do to prevent the water pipes from freezing. I’d like to say I don’t worry about such things, but of course I do. Warmer (?) weather is in the forecast for the middle of next week, but all is relative. 

Waking in Winter

 Waking in the early morning - 7 am. Room as dark as the underside of a beached whale. Silence in every corner of the room. But outside there is a rustling akin to a moth's fluttering wings as snowflakes drift aimlessly from the vault of sky to find rest on roof or bedroom deck. I pull up the fluffy down comforter and turn on my side. Time for a pleasant, dreamy post sleep nap. . . .No! I turn back on my back, driven by guilt at my sloth, my indolence. I move various extremities in a rhythmic pattern: ankles 30 rotations in each direction. Move hips up and down forty-five times each. Neck rotations for a minute or so. Shrug my shoulders for as long as it takes me to find the intent to get out of bed. Thus do I prove to myself that I am still in control of my motor functions. And yet another day evolves into a vague sense of reality.