Outside my attic loft glass door blowing snow makes virtually impossible to glimpse the bare trees or the rooftops, chimneys, not to mention the skyscrapers farther away. Even the "L" tracks are barely visible nor can I hear the rumbling trains as they rush by across the street. It's like looking at the world through gauze. Flakes fly around, dance up and down, fall on each other. The sidewalks must be impassable by now. It's almost two in the afternoon and it has been snowing for a long time. I am trapped indoors.
I suppose if I had something important to do, I would risk the wind and cold and treacherous streets, but, since I don't, I stay home. Count yourself lucky I tell myself. You have a warm house, food, and all kinds of toys to entertain yourself. What are you complaining about? I have no answers. I tend to complain, to whine, to feel sorry, to get bored. Lately I've added feeling at a loss to my repertoire of useless activities. And nothing makes me feel more at a loss than being stuck inside, alone.
I'm supposed to take a walk every day. Walking is good for the body and the spirit. Walk and observe my surroundings, the landscape. Listen to the sounds of streets and nature. Smell and touch. Walk and create. But - the mountains of snow make it next to impossible. At best, they make it very, very arduous. I am not the type of person who does "arduous." I don't hike. Much less climb or ski. I stroll, ramble, then I sit at a cafe and write and read.
Every winter I promise myself not to be here the next winter. Go to Buenos Aires. Or Mexico. Or Florida. Anywhere where it is warm and sunny I tell myself. And my husband. Yet, here I am again, one more year, one more winter. The lead grey sky hangs above my head like my very own cloud of melancholy. Where is the sun? Where are the flowers? Then I look outside the window where the bare tree displays some kind of blooms. What is that? my husband asks. It's as if the tree were mocking us, I reply.