I used to think I liked winter, at least from indoors. Over the years, I’ve refined my preference. I like snow at Christmas, I like the changing of the seasons, I like the predictable nature.
I don’t like the wonky weather we’ve had over the past few years. My tolerance for cold has lessened. And the dark. Yes, it’s the dark. While I don’t spend all summer outdoors and can, in fact, get too much sun, the dark of winter is what chases me towards spring.
Earlier in the week, the sun came out, brilliant and shining. So drastically different from the other days where I’d been turning lights on at 3pm, shivering under sweaters. The warmth came through our blanket covered windows – the ones with hundred year old wavy glass, wooden frames you can’t get to open yet somehow let in every draft.
Our bedroom, a dark cave for sleeping, faces east and south, a delicate corner perched on the second level of our home. I pulled down the blanket covering the large south window, since just by walking past I could feel heat radiate and even the dark blue fabric could not stop the sun from streaming in.
The sun and the heat and the light came in, and I basked in it, face upturned. My pale Canadian skin soaked it up, and just for a moment I thought maybe my neighbour might really think me crazy if I stood there stripped down.
February is so long for a short month, so dark and so cold. But this year we’ll be going to Texas in early March, a reward for hanging on, and while I am there I will worship the sun as much as possible.