end-of-the-winter-seasonToday promises to be 66 degrees, and while we are not there yet, the world looks different to us in Michigan.

After a brutally cold winter of ice and snow, seemingly endless dark short days and below-zero temperatures that chilled us to the bone, the frigid cold broke. Temperatures rose to the 40s and stayed there. Slowly, day by day, the snow melted, dripping away into the gutters and sewer drains, the grass beginning to peek out from under its matted hibernation.

This happens every year. For those of us who live in a cold climate, we know the cycles that surround us. Hot, steamy summer with lots of humidity give way to deep Indian-summer fall, where leaves change to brilliant colors and we wait, wait, wait, for the coolness to snap the heat.

It does, of course, and we revel in the fallen leaves, the raked piles, the first snow flakes. We hope for a white Christmas, a brilliant diamond-shiny New Year. And then we settle in for what seems like the longest winter ever, wondering aloud, posting on social media networks, why we live in this desolate place.

And then it happens. The tide turns as it always does except every year, we forget that this change is coming. It’s a metaphor of course. We can’t see beyond the end of our noses.

We live here because we relish the change of seasons. We like having four distinct climate environments to dwell in for that seemingly endless time – of spring rain sheeting down, of summer haze all around, of interminable fall dangling on, of frigid winter refusing to leave.

This morning, I walked up the same city sidewalks I have traversed in all of these seasons, smiling into the bright sun, smiling at the golfers already on the course, smiling as I rounded the mile-marker and headed back for home.

Today, I don’t want to do much except BE. I want to feel it break that 66-degree prognosis and linger outside in the open air because I can. This is the freedom we all hunger for. The ability to step outside and be in the moment and feel the elements all around us as if this is the only moment ever.

When I returned home from the morning walk, I did a few sun salutations on the living room rug. Israeli pop music played over the speakers. The sun shone brightly into my home. I took my time getting ready for the day, reveling in the ability to move slowly.

We are nesting, as the world reopens. We are pulling inward, ready to move outward, into the world, into the fresh air of this life, into the promise of a new dawn.

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