Flurries of Inactivity

I am fighting the good fight, but Mother Nature is a force to be reckoned with. 

Last night, lured by the relative warmth of the snowy white blanket she was tossing down, I took the dog out for a walk. Like me, he enjoys the fresh snow. We claim it as our own, with our footprints and, thanks to him, some deep crevices carved out with pee. Last night, the falling flakes were heavy and relentless, piercing my eyes and making it difficult to see. I began to understand how my blind dog feels; the blanket was so thick it was impossible to tell where the sidewalk ends and the street begins. 

I gazed up at the trees, and I felt small. In my new neighborhood, the trees are old and majestic, and the modest houses seemed insignificant beneath the canopy of tangled, snow covered branches. I had barely noticed all the trees before; last night, were it not for the occasional circle of light pouring from a window, I could swear I was in a forest. Everywhere I looked, it was Mother Nature's canvas, dark limbs crisscrossing each other in stark contrast to the backdrop of invisible air. The dog planted his face in a mound of snow, lifting his head up to flaunt his fresh white beard. Briefly, I considered shoveling, but I knew it would be pointless. 

This morning, I congratulate myself on my decision not to bother shoveling. From my second floor window, I see an amorphous white blob in the driveway, which I assume is my car. My hands are stiff from a week of futile attempts to dig out, and I know when I've been beaten. I know I should probably get to it before the temperatures plunge well below zero, as has been promised, but as long as the white powder keeps falling I will wave my white flag. Not a complete surrender, but a bit of a truce while I let the Advil get to work and wait for Mother Nature, the mama bear of all mama bears, to turn off the spigots and stop showing us who's boss.

Like all mothers, Mother Nature can be fiercely protective, though sometimes harsh -- particularly when she is trying to teach us a lesson. I get it. I have left the shovel hanging in the garage and have crawled back under the covers with the dog. He starts snoring immediately, but my own slumber is delayed by a vibrating cell phone. It is a recording, telling me that the schools in our district will be closed tomorrow, extending winter break for one more day. 

There is a method to Mother Nature's madness and fury. She is taking care of us, giving us all some extra much-needed rest. Who am I to mess with that?