Winter

Not for the first time in my life, I find myself in the minority. We've had abundant snowfall this winter here in the Roanoke Valley, and while others are busy grousing and wishing spring were here, I am reveling in my good fortune to experience such a winter wonderland.

There is great romance in winter, or as Lewis might put it, a Northernness which brings forth severe beauty and requires a hardiness to survive such a season or climate, both mystery and danger. Lewis put it thus as he described the longing or sehnsucht which such Northernness brought about:

I knew nothing about Balder; but instantly I was uplifted into huge regions of northern sky. I desired with almost sickening intensity something never to be described (except that it is cold, spacious, severe, pale and remote) and then . . . found myself at the very same moment already falling out of that desire and wishing I were back in it.

There is a wildness and a demand from winter and snow. It must be paid attention even as it blankets the ground, absorbing noise and lighting up the night. One must either stop and wait or exert great effort to proceed. Is it any wonder most of nature stops or slows down, and aren't we silly creatures to demand that life should go on just as if there were no winter?