Now it is March, which is northern New England's season of impatience.
Four months now we've had snow and ice, and slippery roads, and frigid Canadian winds. We're ready for crocuses and incoming robins singing cheerio. But that's not yet.
South of here, March is when spring finally opens its eyes. Here in the north, it's when spring gives us an occasional sexy wink, to soften us up, then blows more snow in our face.
So, here we are, looking out our west-facing windows at the horizon's mountain range, white all the way up the flanks to the peaks. There's a meadow below our windows, rising to a knoll, all buried under a foot of snow.
Gray sky, looming clouds. More snow forecast.
We stare out the window glumly. After all these months, winter lies heavy on the mind.
But what's that, coming up the meadow knoll? It's a woman, bundled in a parka and heavy mittens, and at her feet prances a small mahogany-furred presence, performing ballet moves in the snow.
He's a Pembroke Welsh corgi, with a huge personality, but short legs. Walter can't walk through the snow, with those short legs, so he prances through it, jumping, pirouetting, burrowing, leaping up in a geyser of white—having a blast.
Walter's endured the same four frozen months as we have, and now he's out in it with no parka, no mittens, no boots…but he's not glum.
Walter is joyfully alive, relishing the white stuff in which he prances, gleefully using his snout as a shovel, to throw up powdery white clouds.
Presumably, we should learn from Walter—take what life gives you, cold or warm, find joy, prance.
Yes, it would be nice. However, that's not how it is. Our sky's still gray, our meadow's still mineral white, it's still gusting cold.
We watch Walter prance back down the knoll and out of sight, leaving just a memory of exuberance.
We're still staring out the window, looking at another month of winter.
Yet, not quite so glumly as fifteen minutes ago.
--Joyce & Richard