This morning, my mom texted to say that it was snowing – again – in Maryland.
There’s not a cloud in the sky on the Northern California coast, though.
Since October, I’ve been lamenting the lack of seasons in my new home. It’s almost always mild, so much so that 50 degrees now feels chilly to me, and most of the days I’ve had here have been sunny and pleasant.
All of that is great, and it’s also been a surprisingly difficult adjustment. I realized this fall that I was subconsciously – and then quite consciously – waiting for the turn of seasons, the change in colors, the snuggling down into soup-and-sweater weather. Yet while there have definitely been some nights that have demanded chili for dinner, the majority have nudged me towards open windows and a sweatshirt as warmth enough.
So two weeks ago, when I flew to the east coast for a visit, the sudden plunge into well-below-freezing temperatures was a reality check.
Immediately, I remembered not only of the beauty of falling snow, which is a true joy, but also the careful steps demanded by icy walkways, and the biting cold of wind that saps my skin of moisture, and the burning of freezing hands being used as scrapers for a front windshield, when there isn’t a plastic one in sight. None of those things is actually a joy at all.
And though I love Maryland, and am planning on moving back to the east coast within a few years, I also for the first time thought:
Why do you people all live here?!
Just kidding. I get it. There’s a certain joy in watching the world move through its cycles and wisdom, and I do – truly – miss it. There is all sorts of fun that comes with the seasons – all four of them – and that’s not something I’m experiencing much of out here.
Ah, well. If I have to have a warm day for my March 1, I might as well head outside, and let the sunshine dry my tears. Spring is coming soon, Mom, I promise.