The cold comes in slow: white fog that slides over the mountains at night. Hangs in wreaths around the peaks.
Usually, I fear the winter. I see it as a long night when my summer radiance sleeps, curled up like a crocus under snow.
But this year… This year I’m hopeful.
I often hear the phrase, “Oh, what a difference a year makes,” and for me, in this moment, that’s true. Because I was in a very lonely place twelve months ago.
But suddenly I find myself surrounded by a tribe of good people who I adore, and who might — just maybe — adore me, too.
And so I look forward to long winter months around dining room tables, with wine and candlelight, good food and good cheer, conversations that wind like boxwood mazes … music … and laughter. Oh, God, I look forward to laughter.
I say all this because, if you’re looking toward a winter that feels a bit more bleak, I want you to hear me tell you that the bleakness just can’t last.
Not a chance, friend…
Can I tell you something else?? I’ve been scrolling through my photos from last winter, and I’m noticing something surprising:
My winter photos are about ten times more beautiful than my summer shots.
I find these lines in last year’s journal, scribbled during February’s cold:
…And maybe that’s why I’ve found it easier, rather than harder, to learn photography in winter.
Because when the whole world is stripped clean of color, the beauty spare and sometimes poverty-stricken … then, a single leaf, a lone limb thrust up to the sky, screams out like an exclamation point.
(Oh, Lord, electrify me).
And maybe this poverty of green is necessary to keep my eyes sharp — my soul hungry and desperate enough to get down on my knees for the crumbs.
I sit here at my little writing desk, the lamplight reflecting the words back to me like an echo, and I think: yes.
Yes, that’s true.
It’s true for me, and it’s true for you, too.
So. Whatever winter you’re expecting: full and warm, or hungry and cold …
Please know this: we’re going to make some beauty in it, together.
We’ll take photographs.
We’ll share snatches of poetry.
And Spring — I promise — will be lush and green on the other side.
Come with me??