A week ago New England (along with the rest of the Atlantic Coast) was preparing for the blizzard of 2010. I suppose when there's only a week of the year left, you can be pretty certain a blizzard is "the" blizzard of the season. My corner of the world was expected to receive 12"-18" of snow, and we most certainly did.
All week the weather grew progressively nicer. The snow stopped falling, the winds died down, a tiny spot of blue appeared between the clouds, the gray storm clouds were relaced by the cotton ball variety and so it continued until yesterday when temps reached the high 40s and the hush of snow was replaced by a chorus of dripping. From blizzard to no jacket required (yes, we are quick to ditch layers at the first sign of a break in the weather) in one week. After that, very little weatherwise would have surprised me.
Of course, it's not every day I awake inside a cloud.
For the first time in weeks I kept my resolution to take a morning walk. I didn't even eat breakfast out of fear that the temperature would dip and the fog disapear before I had a chance to get out in it.
On the Minuteman Bike Trail figures emerged from nowhere and disapeared just as fast. I jumped when one jogger appeared out of the fog just ahead of me and wished me a good morning.
The fog seemed to play tricks with sound as well. Maybe it was just that I couldn't synch what I was hearing with what I was seeing, but I had the sense of sound being muffled. As I entered Parker Meadow Conservation area I saw out of the corner of my eye something glide out of the meadow and into the trees. Could it be a deer? A second later I realized it was a fellow walker, taking in the spectacle of the transformed landscape. Something about the unearthlines of the scene called for solitude, so I went the other way around the pond.
Ice had formed on the pond before the blizzard; I could see where someone had crossed it on skis. But this morning it looked more soupy than stable, a lot like the pond we used to dare each other as kids to walk through in March. Whoever went the farthest past the ice and into the slushy water had bragging rights, at least until the next day's attempt.
I circled the pond, visiting the place where I'd watched tadpoles surface last spring and later photographed frogs the size of my fist. Today the idea of any life, much less something as vulnerable as an amphibian ever being in that habitat seemed impossible.
Tadpole surfacing
Even today there were signs of life, like these spider web strands. At first glance they appeared to be a fishing line tangled in the branches. Once I noticed them I saw the strands on several trees around me, even stretching across the stream that feeds the pond. It was like no spider web I'd ever seen before. The strands were so far apart it seemed improbable that a bug would be unable to avoid them. How could they possibly be effective? Maybe it was the moisture of the fog that had rendered them visible. I've certainly had the experience of walking through the woods and feeling (rather than seeing) spider webs break across my face.
It's funny how in winter it's impossible to imagine the world ever being anything other than a watercolor painted entirely in neutrals, and in the summer it's unfathomable that the world could ever be so bare. To illustrate my point, here's a picture of a path from Parker Meadow to the bike trail taken this morning.
And here's the same trail (from the opposite direction) taken in July.
I've seen this seasonal transformation every year of my life, and yet it still amazes me. The scene around us appears so set, so permanent, but in reality the only thing that can be counted on is change. That idea scared me to the core the first time I heard it, but I've learned to see hope and freedom in it. For no matter how bad (or good) a situation is, it won't last forever, no matter what I do. That's liberating. It doesn't mean I should just sit back and wait for the universe to make things happen. Instead it reduces my responsibility to taking the next right-for-me step, which this morning meant heading home for a hot breakfast.
On the way I heard birds above me; more birds than I've seen or heard in over a month.
Their chattering put a smile on my face, and I sang all the way home.
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