I was delighted when the weather forecast called for a snow storm of blizzard-like proportions, and awed by the beauty the snowfall bestowed on the quotidian outlines of my house and yard.
I was less thrilled when I had to go out and shovel to get to work. Much less thrilled. The snow is up to my knees, and is over an old layer of snow which has been compacted. It took me an hour to do less than half the job, an hour during which, to my chagrin, I felt so miserable I finally told myself, "No negative thinking about how you can't do this, but you're allowed to cry if you want to." And I wanted to. Memories of past winters, past snowstorms, different circumstances. Tears ran down my cheeks as I shovelled on, nearly falling several times because of the sleety, icy layer exposed underneath.
As my alarm struck twelve, I knew I couldn't get to my job teaching, and called the principal, who was matter-of-fact and understanding, and probably mystified by my tearful tone.
I took a break for a couple of mugs of hot water and some raisin biscuits, read a couple of old, old, old (mainly depressing, unfortunately) stories from a collection of stories from The New Yorker published at the end of the 1940s, and now I have re-girded my loins and am heading out to do battle with the Snow Beaste once again. I remember decades ago, the excitement when a children's book was published where the princess, instead of being saved by her prince or a knight in shining armor, saved herself (gag me with a spoon). My further thoughts are best left unwritten. In the meantime, this peasant girl has to finish saving her crumbling hovel. (I wonder if I need to shovel the flat roof? I know some people have done that - and several years ago I did when it was mentioned on the news.)
"Be careful what you wish for; you may get it." That certainly applies here, but despite the consequences, my heart will always long for the magic of snow in winter. Beauty has its price, and if I must pay for it myself, I will.
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