cheers, okay…
“I am younger each year at the first snow. When I see it, suddenly, in the air, all little and white and moving… then I am in love again and very young and I believe everything.”
- Anne Sexton, in a letter to W.D. Snodgrass (November, 1958)
The first time I ever read this quote was nearly five or six years ago. It was one of those things that just stuck.
There was a lot going on at that time in life–that winter–I remember.
My brother was really sick. We all thought he was going to die, actually. I can still see him lying on the couch–mustard yellow with jaundice–and trying to behave as if, somehow, everything was fine; act as if he wasn’t going to die.
Luckily, he did not die. He still has not died & the universe is better because of it; he makes me laugh like no one else & is one of the hardest working people I will ever probably know. And he makes the best pepperoni rolls known to the human race. Hands down.
My heart was in disarray at that time as I was attempting to convince myself that I was, in fact, in love with someone that I was–quite actually–not in love with one bit. Now, in retrospect, I’m not sure I ever even liked the guy.
It was my fault, though. I was young, lonely, bored and I still thought I could somehow fill in the blanks with other people & other people’s shit.
I had no idea (even less then than I do now, if you can believe it…) what the fuck I was doing. This was before I had decided to go back to school, before I had three dogs (just me & the Ween then), before I really began to understand just how important cooking and the kitchen were to me, before I quit smoking (which I have begun to pine for. Again.), and before I realized, errr, admitted that I had relapsed with my eating disorder.
I was a hot mess.
I was really far away from home, I guess you could say.
Which is what made me think of the snow.
And snowplows.
I remember writing a rumination over memories I had about the unsuspecting comfort of snowplows in the middle of the night, in the dark. The unsuspecting comfort that came from seeing the red and orange lights swirling over the tops of the plows like halos–the lights glittering through the frostbitten windows–as they swooshed by, a stranger at the wheel of my heart.
When I think about the snow–rushing down to earth in big and feathery clumps–I feel the silence that it brings with it, the way it smells, and the promise of a snowplow; the promise that everything was going to be okay.
And, when I think about the snow, I inevitably begin to reminisce about Christmastime and holidays of past. My mother always wished hard for a white Christmas and she usually got her way; I always saw it as a gift for just her from someplace mysterious–a secret admirer in the sky–as I think it brought her an extra layer of peace at the end of another year.
I was lucky enough to be raised on holidays that overflowed with homemade cookies, roaring fires, the best food, a sense of giving back, a sense of appreciation, a sense of nostalgia, and a sense of the spirit of the season.
I now continue to be one of those people that get remarkably giddy during the holiday season. I love the notion of spreading cheer and showering those I love in hugs, kisses, good wine, and baked goods. For me, the holidays are a time to appreciate the early dark, the cold, my neighbors and fellow folk that I encounter on the sidewalk or in the post office and their smiles. It’s about taking pleasure in sitting in a lightless house looking at a tree covered in tiny lights & passed down ornaments. It’s about tradition and trusting in the thought that everything is going to be okay.
And, it’s about the snow and her promises.
Living in Savannah allows me a lot of beauty to be encountered on a daily basis, but she does not give me the snow.
She does give me the rain, however. When it rains in Savannah, it rains. Hard, long, fat, misty, blue-gray-gold rain that falls from the sky fast, washing down the trees and streets. The rain in Savannah has a presence that you cannot ignore; it’s the sort of rain that begs to stop you and make you watch and listen.
The other day I was in one of my favorite places to be in general and especially when it is raining.
It had been gray for days and sprinkling here and there–the sky thick and wet. I looked up and out the window sprayed with white lights and heavy green pine to the sky falling apart. It was suddenly raining so wildly that, for a passing minute, I thought it was snowing. My eyes widened and I, in fact, lost my breath for a second. The person standing next to me asked me if I was alright. I shook my head of the moment, feeling silly, and stuttered out a “yeah… I just really like the rain”.
“… When I see it, suddenly, in the air, all little and white and moving… then I am in love again and very young and I believe everything.” It was exactly how I have always felt about the snow, and now, it is how I feel about the rain in Savannah, too.
In that fleeting moment where the rain caused my head to cloud and my heart to skip a beat and run over in the possibility of belief, I felt the possibility of the new year soon coming.
It has been a quiet and unassuming year for me. Nothing overwhelmingly sad nor remarkably grand occurred. I learned a lot about myself in evenings spent alone or in the company of others over wine; I learned my truest thoughts happen as my legs are running over the ground–quick, fast, and breaking–as if I could just run away and & never look back. I learned that my favorite coffee is Yirgacheffe– from either Cup to Cup or Counter Culture roasters, respectively.
I learned that nothing begins a day sweeter than my morning bike commute–spinning off the sleep– and that the security guard I pass on the corner of Liberty & Habersham each morning (who’s name I will never probably know), makes my day every morning as he sends a warm and sincere wave and a smile my way and I send a bright smile and “good morning!” right on back. This exchange is reliable, genuine, and makes me feel as safe as those snowplows always did.
I learned about marriage, year one down, and how my greatest worry and fear is that I’m not doing it right and I am going to fail. Miserably.
I learned how to make really good homemade pasta–pappardelle–and how to grow my own sprouts. I got lost in Montreal, Quebec and realized I speak better French than I thought I did. I learned my favorite hangover food is a sausage biscuit. That I am still so very much an independent-i’ll-do-it-myself-leave-me-be-I-am-my-own-sovereign-woman sort of creature and I am learning whether or not this is a good quality. I learned that I am the sort of person that gets carried away, lost and bobbing down the river that flows inside of my head. I learned how much I fucking love okra.
I learned that the rain is like the snow in that as long as it is there, falling and moving for me to watch and to feel, everything is going to be okay.
So, with all of my love– cheers to making it through another year.
I absolutely wish you all of the good & merry, all of the cheerful things–
from me to you.
