And so it begins.
Winter has lots of possible beginnings: cultural (Monday after Thanksgiving), calendrical (December 1st), astrological (Winter Solstice), what-have-you. But in my experience as a newbie-Bostonian, I’m pretty sure that the winter storm season doesn’t begin until right about now. There have been exceptions to this, of course: a couple of our years here have had one biggish snowfall in December. But in most years, the first big snow dump seems to happen somewhere around mid-January or MLK day. And even in those years that had a single snowstorm in December, the rotating lineup of winter storms didn’t start until then.
And, right on time, Winter Storm Harper is scheduled to arrive tomorrow evening.
In other weeks, Mr. Mezzo and I would probably be doing our storm prep during the day on Saturday, but we both have plans (him: D&D; me: the salon). So we checked our “salt” supplies* and made the grocery list last night, and my brave hero went to the grocery store right after work today. He was there with approximately 200 of our neighbors, but we figure it’d be approximately 600 of our neighbors tomorrow, so we’ll take that as a win.
(Full disclosure: I was planning on taking that particular bullet myself, but I have, alas, come down with the Creeping Crud that has been going around the office, so my Knight in Shining Subaru did the grocery run so I could get some sleep after work. #TwooWuv)
So we’ll each jet out for our afternoon agenda, likely getting home just in time for one more dog walk before the snow starts falling.
Since I am such a hyggelig** homebody, I usually look ahead to the first big snowstorm of the year with a good deal of pleasure. It’s a great excuse to snuggle in for a couple days, with no one expecting me to go anywhere or be anywhere. I can drink tea, read books, snuggle with the dog and just enjoy this little life of mine.
Being ill cuts into that enjoyment a tiny bit—where’s the fun in the traditional grilled-cheese-and-tomato-soup lunch when all I could choke down for dinner today was some cinnamon toast? For the most part, though, I can still feel the anticipatory happiness of nesting in while the storm does it’s thing outside.
And I’m also really aware tonight of all the privilege and good things in my life that allow me to be in nesting mode. We have a comfortable home, with enough money to not have to worry about the heating bills or affording groceries. I have a job where I get MLK Day as a holiday, so I know I won’t have to deal with the post-storm roads until Tuesday. And, honestly, even if Monday weren’t a holiday, my company is flexible and compassionate enough to let us work from home if snow has made the roads in our town unsafe for commuting.
As important as all those material factors is a slow-growing shift in my interior landscape. After a few tough years with life stressors and mental illness, I’m in a place where I’m pretty darn happy with myself and my life, a happiness that has been in a pretty good growth cycle for the last 14 months or so. And that means the idea of being shut in a quiet environment with my own thoughts senses as pleasurable rather than terrifying.
So: let the storm rage on. I am home, I am loved. I am grateful.
* Actually: paw- and pet-friendly ice melt substance.
** Yup: the actual adjectival form of the term.
Image credit: Donated to Wikimedia Commons by The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Made available through a Creative Commons CC0 1.0 Universal (CC0 1.0) Public Domain Dedication.