Last year we had a miracle of snow dropping down from the clouds in abundance of late. Perspective.
… I have felt
A presence that disturbs me with the joy
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling place is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean and the living air,
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man:
A motion and spirit that impels
All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
And rolls through all things …
Is that mature enough for you? Wordsworth and the other Romantics understood the snow. So did Frost:
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Frost recognizes the beauty of nature and the snow, and sure, he grows very weary, and thinks of stopping in the cold, dark night, perhaps for his final rest. But he doesn’t. He goes on through the deep and frozen Winter, refusing to sleep. Even his horse recognizes he’s got to keep plodding forward while the Winter compels him to sleep. So, yes, there’s a choice for our prescription – to rest or to play – but we cannot completely hibernate when we've got miles to go before we sleep.
Remember, last winter we made it through it together and this winter we all have promises to keep and we’ll get through them together.