Chickadee

I don’t hate Winter.

I do grow weary of the dreary. I do wish I was a bit hardier, being driven indoors by frigid temps and icy winds, preferring the welcome arms of a comfy chair by the fire, or the embrace of a thick throw.

But I do not hate Winter.

For me, it is often a time of peace and solitude, a time to reflect and take inventory, a time to withdraw and embrace the introvert within. But when I do look outward, when Winter grabs my attention, I am struck by the reaffirmation of life that is all around me. Leaves that cling stubbornly to the limb that bore them, bits of green where no green could possibly be, large stately bucks sporting magnificent antlers, dancing effortlessly through the snow, squirrels foraging in the bracken, finding time to play and frolic about, and Chickadees, my beloved Chickadees. Nothing speaks resilience to me like a Chickadee in Winter. Their tiny presence always garners a notice. How cheery they are, these mighty balls of fluff. Just feather and hollow bone, yet seemingly immune to Mother Nature’s harshest challenges of wind, ice, snow, and cold. They accompany us all the way through, with not a moment’s lost faith that this shall pass. They do not bemoan Winter, but readily accept the gifts that come.

 

No, I do not hate Winter. I am grateful to her.

Done