The stark, icy cold of winter has yet to grace the north— the whiteness, the no-complication, the no-contour, the many shades of white layered on various shades of gray. Today I see remnants of autumn with its hollowness. I feel a void of seasonal change— the uncertainty of the Oaks as they hold tight to their few remaining leaves, the green mosses shine chartreuse, confused though brilliant, shrouded in a near-blue frost as they await the chance to rest and lie dormant. Today they still feel the heat of the Earth warming their tiny roots and reaching towards the suns periodic kisses on the tips of their beings.

I remain in hope that starkness will arrive ridding the landscape of the complication of muted hues and lake water that still moves under the too-thin layer of uncertain ice. I cling to the hope that the presented landscape will once again offer me a blank page on which to spew my new aspirations and my, as yet recognized, winter-oriented insights. 

I’ve always appreciated, even needed, the starkness of winter and its simplicity. The freeze offers opportunities— a snapshot moment but for months on end, allowing nature to slow and stand still. In other seasons varying, vibrant colors are on display, swaying in both graceful and severe movements. Scents grab us and throw us into the past, our eyes are tempted into the spectrum of hues and the birds awaken us with their symphonies of sound. The eyes, the ears, the nose, can be caught in a sensual whirlwind. But winter is less demanding, offering time to hibernate, even contemplate about where we’ve been and where we are headed. We can dream about the blessings of warmth, appreciate the slow thaw and its accompanying new growth, small eruptions of green on the thinning blanket of white, bubbling over with possibility.

Time, space and quiet are conducive to the creative energy reset, a re-contextualizing, an embracing of the heat of new perspectives after which we can once again honor the words— “Hope springs eternal.”

Tricia Schwaba, December 26, 2023