As I approach the end of my sixth decade in this unkempt
body, it is newly surprising to me how lovely it can be to walk outdoors in the
February sunshine, no matter the ambient temperature, as long as the wind is
not blowing. March is for flying kites and for hardy children with red-chapped
cheeks. Calm February is for strolling, for adults with a renewed sense of
purpose and determination to keep physically fit, especially we who have always
eschewed the latest in home gym exercise equipment. We, who long ago gave away
the treadmill in the basement because we already had a laundry rack on which to
hang our drying clothes. We wanted to free up the floor space, to set up yet
another set of shelves to keep handy rarely-used kitchen appliances, like the
crepe-maker, which is only brought out once a year for the sole purpose of
creating magic with Thanksgiving turkey dinner leftovers. Extra wine glasses
with gold rims have a special spot downstairs. They are safely stored, and
appear upstairs only when special company is expected.
The world outside is different somehow than it was when I
was a child, now that I'm taking a clue from my dog, who enjoys any and every experience
life has to offer, as long as it involves fresh air. My mother was doting and
tender-skinned. No matter how comfortable I felt, she would always tell me to
put on a sweater when the August evening air dipped below "steaming hot"
and left her feeling "chilly."
It is now the dead of winter, and I am surprised that I am
willingly submitting myself to below-zero temperatures. I am awash in the
natural elements, here on the hiking trail, and I'm happy. My canine companion runs
beside me in full stride, eager to explore whatever corner of the frozen earth
I decide we will adventure together today. Snow and ice have become once more
the ordinary playthings of creatures immersed in their home environment. I pull
down an icicle from a white-blanketed tree. I scoop up a handful of instant
ball-throwing target-practicing perfection, and toss it as far as I can. The
fluff falls apart, showering the trail ahead of me with shimmers of crystals.
They glimmer in the sun.
I am one with my cool world, oblivious to the cold.
I don't even notice that the atmosphere is frigid and
unforgiving. I am blameless, and moving briskly, my hairy friend on his leash
cheerily trotting beside me. My white breath-puffs march out before me, as
those overhead of a coal-fired, steam-engine locomotive flying down the tracks.
"I think I can, I think I can, I think I can..." It may be winter,
but I am exercising, and it is fun.
When I was a younger person, I always bundled up carefully
against the winter cold. I fought to spend as few minutes as possible away from
my favorite reading nook, curled up by the fire. I endured my February hours
reclined, a book propped up on my knees, my glasses balanced on my nose. I sipped
cup after cup of hot black tea, fragrant and delicious, long-steeped and
sweet-and-sour tangy, with lots of fresh-squeezed lemon and an overly-generous
heaping of sugar. I pulled tight around me my heavyweight terrycloth bathrobe.
I tucked my feet under, fearful lest a bit of cool air attack my bare ankles,
which were left uncovered at the bottom of my flannel pajama pants. Aside from
turning pages, the only time I moved was to get up and put more water on the
stove, to refill the teapot, or to exchange the excitement of one finished classic novel for the
next yet-to-be-explored treasure. I had a huge pile borrowed from the library. Exhausting the words of
one favorite author, I would always discover yet another, and dive in headfirst. My winter joys seemed
limitless.