It was a beautiful day. The sun was out for most of it, for the first time in a while. The wind was crazy off the Lake, has been since yesterday afternoon. We went out to buy dinner last night, and some confused soul made the world wonderful with his brights shining into a blast of snow blown off the Lake from behind the Honda dealership.

I forget winter, and get dreading the slush and the hardness of it. Then it comes, this year right on New Year’s Eve, and I bring out my red parka and my red boots and my red and black mittens and all the thick woolen scarves and hats, and the weight and the cushion of it all make me feel safe, some sort of sensory dysfunction I suppose, that gentle pressure – maybe like Temple Grandin’s hug machine. That burny-hot feeling your hands get when they warm up from the sting and scrape of snow. The sound of shovels on sidewalks, and the light coming up from under your window.

The squeak of boots on snow.

Dreadful caution and cold and the world sliding out from under your feet, and darkness. Maybe it’s this, the paying attention, that brings with it the feeling of being home, and safe. Maybe it’s the pause, catching your breathe after the holidays. I don’t know. Daughter says it’s because I’m Norwegian. I don’t care. I’m home. January is home.

(Oh. Group of Seven here.)