Outside the window, except for a few lights on the street below and in the buildings around me, it’s black. Large frosty clouds of exhaust from rooftops and cars passing by break up the blackness just a little. Several bulky-looking pedestrians pass by, walking quickly despite their bulk; one is running. Cars move slowly, as though they’re not quite thawed, and as though their grip on the road can’t be trusted.
Inside, the forced air heating my space wakes the wind chimes in the window, producing the quietest of melodies, and the memory of summer. The brightness of the computer screen tells my brain it is morning, time to leave behind the consciousness of the night. It also tells me that wind-chill values are below minus 40 degrees, and that frostbite can occur in minutes.
It’s a new day. And though we take yesterday with us, like mud on our boots after a muddy trail, it is new. I resolve to stay rooted and present and engaged, through and with and despite the mud on my boots.