Breathing, in the Winter

It's been a long December, and there's reason to believe
Maybe this year will be better than the last.
I can't remember
All the times I tried to tell myself to hold on
to these moments
as they passed...

Remember that song? Well, my love, there are about 8 inches of snow on the ground here. Nothing is closed, but the streets aren't too well-plowed, either. I'm so tired. So profoundly tired. This cold makes it hurt to breathe, even with a scarf... it's no good. My lungs panic and try to crystalize and shatter with every breath, and then they think coughing will help, but it only makes it worse!

It hurts to breathe.

There's something about the particular brand of winter here-- the bitter cold, the delicate balance between wet and dry, the snow that lay on the trees and ground, the electricity of the air, the shapes taken by the frost that forms on the windows at dawn, the powerful stillness of the nights-- it's so alien, but there's something very familiar about it. Something beautiful that somehow makes me remember things and places I've never seen. There's a sense of this strong connection to the past as I endure this winter. My body remembers something my mind doesn't. And there's a deep sadness. A kind of mourning. But it's made warm by the season rather than cold, so that I am wrapped in this blanket and the tears don't freeze. I've felt this before, but to a much lesser degree. I never had to think about what it was trying to say because it wasn't strong enough. Here the winter is stronger than I, and I must be still and listen. And grow. And remember. I remember my ancestors and my children's children. I remember the places I've been and the places I've yet to see. It is difficult but necessary, at once warm and cold, beautiful, and it hurts... it HURTS!

But then, so does breathing, in the winter.