Winter

I work until 5:30, which I think works perfectly for me.

Until today.

Today, around 5:10 or so, I walked out of my office to get something off the printer, and when I walked back in, I was surprised not to see trees outside of my window. In fact, I didn't see anything except a perfect reflection of myself. I was surprised because I had, in fact, painted my kitchen stools on the back porch last night AFTER I got home. Granted, I had the porch light on, so perhaps that's skewed my perception some, but I could have sworn that it wasn't pitch black outside at or before 5:30 yesterday.

*Sigh.*

Although I miss the light of spring and summer - both the quantity and the quality - I also do appreciate the changing of the seasons. The trees are quite beautiful; I'll occasionally come upon one that really makes me stop and think about the automatic response of living things on the earth to the earth's revolution. It's usually the maples that have turned so fiery red, all at once, so no other color appears to remain on the leaves. Or the tulips, which turn such a ethereal gold.

I love the crispness of the night this time of year. This phenomenon is what gives all of those holiday songs about twinkling their basis. You can see forever, yet the refraction of the light in the atmosphere still creates a "twinkle." I've always thought that this weather makes the tradition of holiday lights just fabulous. (Aside: Ever wanted to walk through the Festival of Lights, instead of having to drive through it? There's a 5K this year, December 31, at midnight. And, while I'm sure the race organizers would much prefer that you run, I plan on walking. What better way to ring in the new year.)

From my vantage point, in my little house in the Krispy Kreme Capital of the World, the buildings of downtown come into sharp focus. The edges which normally blur in the summer's humidity are now present, allowing you to see exactly how impressive a 34 story building is.

I love that, even in the light-polluted city, you can clearly see Orion over the Northern horizon early at night. I love that you can catch a glimpse of the milky way here and that you can occasionally catch a glimpse of several bright stars in the milky way. I long to drive out to the mountains, sit by a lake or in a clearing, far from the lights of the city, and stare at the stars in the sky.

It's overwhelming when I can do that. The sheer number of stars that I can finally see that cover the sky, from the north horizon to the south, from the east horizon to the west. The complete enormity of the creation overcomes me and I realize how small a part of this world I actually am. At no time is Psalm 46:10 more true for me than at that time, in those moments: "Be still, and know that I am God."

The cold of the season also makes me very thankful - for everything. That I've got a warm cat asleep on my lap right now is one of those things for which I'm thankful. That my stinky dog sits and naps behind me as I write this. That a smile of a friend or an acquaintance warms that which heat simply cannot: the heart and soul. That hot chocolate is free in my office. That I've got a fire pit on my back porch, which begs for a fire, even though we're still in a drought. That I can afford to pay my heating bill, when so many others cannot.

That I can let a crock pot sit all day with yummy, warm goodness, ready for me when I walk in the door. That I appreciate the strong smells of the seasons: pumpkin and cinnamon. That the music which feels so cold and sad earlier in the year, feels surprisingly peaceful and sometimes, cheerful in contrast to the weather.

And so, although I'll bemoan the cold and the lack of light and the curse of having to ever change out of shorts and flip flops, I realize the change makes me appreciate that which I love dearly even more - be it in summer or in winter.