After several wonderful days where I could roam around outside without a jacket, I woke up this morning to spitting snow. Later this week, the temps are set to drop to 19 degrees fahrenheit overnight.
I moved around the kitchen, packing Tim's lunch. He ducked out to warm up the car before heading off to work. He loves his heated seats and his heated steering wheel.
When he came back in, we talked about the snow and about how we hope the fire we light on that cold night is the last fire of the season. But will it be, really? Who knows?
But there's a patience about to our talk.
We have had a good taste of spring. The snowdrops are out, and the crocuses too. At the retirement property, the daffodils are heavily budded. The forsythia is ready to go. The spring peepers are out. (The old saying is that peepers have to look through ice 3 times before spring is really here. Hope that's not true.) Over at my sister's place, the new calves are being born. The red wing blackbirds are back, and the grackles and the robins. The little pond that Tim had dug for me when our excavator came is full of frog eggs. I guess I'd better wait a bit before throwing the barley bag in there to clear the water. The little tadpoles will need that algae for food.
Unmistakably, winter is breaking up, and we've had the opportunity to get some outside work done, to make exciting plans, to get a touch of sunburn on our faces, to play in the dirt...this communion with the earth and nature gives us the strength to endure winter's last hurrahs.
We have seen all this cycle before, and we are seeing it once again. Winter does not usually give up easily. Past experience proves that this too shall pass.