A Californian's Perspective on Eastern Winter

This has been my second time experiencing the harsh East Coast winters. Already knowing what to expect, I bundled up extra early and started alerting my Californian-based brain that it was going to get real cold.

I remember the first winter was a great shock. No amount of casual forewarning from my local, experienced peers was able to prepare me for the extent of coldness and unexpected inconveniences that come with snow. After the initial novel excitement that comes with seeing real snow for the first time, the ecstatic flutters of seeing white cover the heart melted into grudging realization of the trudging necessary to battle whisking winds and slippery, slushy snow. I never knew there was a place on earth where the air hurt your face.

Winters, even back in sunny California, had always been difficult for me. Like a hibernating bear, getting out of bed became the biggest obstacle for me. Days became washed out with dull, grey hues; emotional baselines become subdued into a persistent sort of fog. The first time experiencing gloomy weathers day after day exerted more strain than I thought would be possible, so this time around, I had time to mentally prepare myself for the unrelenting days and dark clouds of sadness. I have understood what to expect. 

Knowing that, this time, I started moving beyond the grumbling miseries and noticing the subtle beauties of this East Coast Winter. It is a harsh and unkind place, but it can also be gentle and beautiful. The stillness after a huge snow places a pause on time, and it pulls you to a stop to look. To stop bundling from one hurdle to the next - rushing from destination to arrival. It forces you to appreciate that moment of just being.

And I have realized - once again like the initial amazement I found at first snowfall but less energetically so - that snow can be so beautiful. There's something about snow capping the green brushes and trees that feels gentle. The subduing of the largeness of this green, patiently prevailing life - it seems warm somehow. And like a child, I have discovered that there is a sort of satisfying feeling to the crunching sensation of boots over freshly lain snow. It highlights each step and brings your attention to the simple act of walking itself. Back in my sunny Californian home, I don't think I have ever thought about my walking before. The physical activity of walking has always been perceived as a simple mechanism of transportation. I never really thought about how I walked or what  I was doing whilst walking. That sounds silly, but I guess it kind of makes me notice all the seemingly automatic things we do without noticing. Going places and doing things effortlessly (well, not entirely effortlessly when we slip on frozen ice). How complex and simple we are.

Or maybe the cold's gotten a little too deep through my skull, and I'm just trying to be foolishly poetic about my miserable state. Convince myself that there is merit in this frostbite-harboring side of the world. Just hold it out for two more years, and I'll rejoin my flip-flop-prodding companions.

I hope.