Seems cold weather makes my knees and elbows creak a bit more than it did a few short years back. I take the extra moment or two to add an extra layer of warmth before stepping out into the sub-freezing temperatures of this old fashioned winter. And though the sound of squeaking snow conjures up memories of many winter days when I felt proud that I was strong and tough enough to not be deterred by cold winter weather, I also find today that those squeaks while walking on really cold snow now signal an internal shiver in my psyche. I am growing into eldership in interesting ways, discovering new gifts that have lain dormant and being amazed at new revelations. I am not so amazed at my physical nature rebelling at cold temps.
One aspect of cold, clear winter nights that will remain a steady source of delight and fascination for me is the presence of hoarfrost on the trees and bushes and weeds. Looking to the east on a single digit morning, the bright sun reflecting off of a thick blanket of snow, and creating a million dazzling jewels sparkling across the horizon, I know that the magic of nature still lives. How cool is it to live in a world of rainbows, thunderheads, golden sunsets, autumn colors, spring budbreak, and the mating calls of the winged ones? Tiny private waterfalls, a special place in nature, red dogwood against a blanket of fresh snow, that first warm breeze after the last of winters snow melts, these are all a beautiful part of the natural world. How one might rank these with a pasture full of dandelions in explosive bloom, a blanket of trilliums in the woods in springtime, or the sound of waves lapping on shore is a personal choice. Like the migration of the monarchs, the occurance of hoarfrost is a fleeting experience, one to be enjoyed when it presents itself, a chance to stop for a moment, to be grounded in the moment that is frozen in time.