Robert Frost Had it Right

I had an incredible English teacher my junior year of high school who revealed to me the secret worlds of Emily Dickinson, Ralph Waldo Emerson, and Hemingway to name just a few. What was once a literary mystery became real, almost palpable as I imagined Gatsby's Extravagant outdoor parties and sympathized for Edna's suffocated life in The Awakening. I can't even tell you what classes I took the last semester of my senior year of college but I will always remember that Edgar Allen Poe at one time considered using a Parrot as the main figure of his infamous poem "The Raven". And now it is winter. And I think of Robert Frost. Not only because of his creative name, but mostly because of his winter poem called "Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening" which also has been rooted in my mind due to this same teacher.

Last winter was physically and emotionally disgusting for me. Before last winter, I wasn't aware that when feet are not given the opportunity to air out semi-regularly that the skin between your toes will actually begin to shed. You see, I was continually wearing layers of tights, socks, and slippers. I remember the moment I discovered my rotting feet. I was disgusted and intrigued. My body is literally decomposing because of this horrid weather. All of life seemed gray as if the Earth and it's possessions had no choice but to mirror the skies above. Nothing could satisfy me. There were not enough blankets, the hottest shower could not be hot enough, and I began to despise the inevitable puffs of smoke which my mouth was sure to emit. Spring became a vague myth that I could barely recall and warmth, an always out of reach dream. And I'm not quite sure when this happened but one day I realized this reaction is a choice. I have the option of choosing how I want to emotionally react to this very physical sensation. And I chose to become bitter, both in flesh and heart. So when fall came around this year I made my choice.

I decided to EMBRACE winter this year.

And it's not easy but I can confidently say that this is the most joyfilled, positive winter I can recall as an adult. Ok, so it may have to do a little with the fact that winter thus far has been extremely mild in Philadelphia compared to what it normally is. But I think also, it has to do with my choice. Basically, the rut of this ideaology is based in this one thought: If God created Spring, Summer, and Fall to reflect his Glory then surely Winter is no different. Surely, we can all agree that God does seem a little harder to find in nature during this frigid season but He is surely just as present. Have I really been blind these past 23 winters? Believing God is hibernating along with the furry creatures and trees? But this new mentality has a lot going against it and it takes practice and much intentionality.

The weather in Philadelphia today could be described in two words: scary wind. It awoke me before dawn as it slapped my broken window against the inner pane, demanding my acknowledgement. "Go away!" was my response. Then later I rushed to the bank, moving my little booty feet as fast as they could take me. From inside the cafe I watched, horrified, as people passed by wearing face masks with only their eyes visible. As I headed home from the coffee shop (if you haven't realized yet, I spend a good amount of time in cafes) my body reacted as it normally does under such circumstance; quick movements and tense everything. And about halfway home I remembered. So I slowed my almost-jog to that of a calm-ganter. I relaxed my shoulders which had somehow lifted to ear hieght. I rolled my head around a few times and let my hair free to dance with the sharp movement of the wind. And so I walked the rest of the way home. First I became aware of the difference between the numb-cold of mittened hands and the jagged-cold my face was experiencing. The portion of my legs not being covered by boot or coat stung as if they had been repeatedly slapped and my ears almost burned in pain. But my neck, my neck was so warm! Nestled in three wrap-around layers of wool scarf it actually began to get too hot! And the occasional burst of cold air that somehow penetrated the many layers was welcomed. My nose started to run and I wondered at the homeostasis taking place within me that I didn't even have to initiate! And although I by no means was able to warm myself any further by thus thinking, I did manage to almost enjoy my chilly walk home much as I imagine Robert Frost may have felt when he wrote this poem....

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

La Loba