Two posts ago, I jumped the gun with my essay on fighting to accept winter.
Since then, the universe has served up an uncommonly lovely fall. We have had flickers of frost some mornings. We struggled with a week of wildfire smoke. We got a bit of rain. Enough to make planting the snow stakes pretty easy.
But for almost a month now, we’ve enjoyed a deliriously lovely fall. The sky, framed by brilliant gold trees, remains breathtakingly blue. The geraniums on the porch bloom exuberantly. The coleus plants show no signs of withering. I caught a robin hopping merrily down our driveway just now—even more optimistic than I am. The Montana light has taken on Tuscany’s gold clarity.
Winter’s coming, of course. The city road crew has positioned orange plastic barrels of sand at corners known for icy accidents. Lawn and gardening companies are toting ancient air compressors—used just once a year–around Helena to blow out sprinkler systems. Rattletrap pickups have emerged from sheds—rusted, rebuilt in uncoordinated color panels from junkyard corpses. Ready—on a wing and a prayer–for hunting season or to be fitted with a plow blade for snow. Interstate 15’s busy with Canadian RV’s bound for Arizona sun. Automotive shops plead with us to come in now—before any flakes fly—to get our studded tires put on.
This month has also served up unremitting notices of mortality. Too many friends mourned the deaths and illnesses of people my age or younger. My calendar turned over to 76. The best-of-show birthday card I received reads: “Age tends to silently swoop in like a bird of prey hunting you down and awaiting your squeal. Run!” Whatever nonsensical confidence I had 30 years ago in believing that I would wake up the next day, now, if I’m honest with myself, the odds have changed. I move inexorably toward an end to my days. To no more tomorrows. To debilities that arrive unbidden in the dead of night and stay. To decisions about how and where to live that best be realistic. So how could each of these todays not be more precious. Why on earth would I want to spend them dreading—really anything.
More than being granted this uncommonly beautiful month or blindly ignoring my winter phobia, I have come around a corner from bare acceptance to gratitude. Independent of the weather, I think. To feeling more than ever that I am just hugely, exquisitely fortunate. To have today. To be alive. To be able to read. To write. To see—with (fingers crossed) macular degeneration generally at bay. To hear—especially after the audiologist tuned up my hearing aids today. To savor Tuxedo’s and Tiger Tiger’s affections and shenanigans. (I’ve taken to calling Tiger Tiger- the Vampire. At night he bounds into bed to lick, knead, and nibble on my neck.) To know that my cranky knees do not keep me from savoring every winter day. More than anything, to slide into bed warm and safe. And to be able to help a very few other humans and animals know a bit of that sanctuary.
Catch me if I’m wallowing in winter grumpiness. Remind me of my great good fortune. ©
