Charles and I decided to go to the Fort tonight to soak up the sunshine and relative warmth. After a lovely hike, I enjoyed a tire swing while my man went to get the car. Left alone for a few minutes in the dusk, I was suddenly captivated by the world around me caught somewhere between Winter and Spring. I twirled in a slow circle, taking in the full moon rising over the pond in the East and the fragile-looking silhouettes of bare trees against the pink and purple Western horizon. Almost directly above me, Jupiter was already shining clear and bright and small, before any of the stars. I breathed deeply, drinking in the fresh, cold air, and I realized just how long it had been since I let myself be completely captivated by the world.
It seems fitting in a way that I left this blog in late Autumn, promising to write just as soon as I came to terms with Winter, and then I didn’t show my face again until February started acting like April. That’s probably about how long it’s been since I last took the time to spin around on a tire swing and admire Creation. Maybe it’s because our Winter was mild and muddy instead of frosty and white. Believe me, I’m not complaining. It’s been nice for a change to go through December and January without “traipsing for miles across the Ball State campus when it’s twenty below.” That’s what I was hoping to avoid in my last post, right? I got what I wanted. But I’m starting to see now that perhaps Winter’s beauty lies in its bitterness. You have to let the wind bite your cheeks if you want to find yourself in a moonlit wood among black trees and blue snow with big, soft flakes falling all around.
For whatever reason, other than one evening in December which happened exactly like I just described, I think I more or less missed those moments this Winter. But you’d better believe I’m not going to this Spring.