The middle of a winter morning slides easily into this frosted-over afternoon.

Like aliens from inner-space, our bodies know us because they have been intersepting all along, the signal transmission and reception alll the while being unbeknownst to "us". Somehow, we find, their language sounds like music in our ears.

Outside it's cold, and I am in and warm while watching.
The snowflakes have been falling today and have wiped the landscape and my schedule book both clean.
They call it a cold snap.
You could call it a frozen moment, everything moving more slowly, dwindling and creeping according to the pouring clouds and melting sun. It exists because of snow. And time for nothing comes from nowhere, from the clouds, like a pocket of resistance in the weekly hum-drum way.
Mostly, lately, I've been working on drafting a copy of my final thesis project prior to my graduation. It reminds me of exciting prospects though as it proceeds it continues daily to be a silent tedium.
Today the silence is much-welcomed and signifies rest for me and for my family. I am ready for renewal in the form of quieting cold.

We have sought out such snow all we could so far this winter. We have traveled to the mountains and rejoyced like odd curious beings, venturing out in search of defeaning scenes and fresh experience. We were able to rent cross-country skis from school for the duration of our winter break from December to January and took the opportunity to try it for the first time and improve our skills in the hills.
Finally, on our last weekend, we decided to go up to Trillium Lake on Mt. Hood for 4 days. We got chains, went up in a blistering storm on a blustery day, and started our trudge through the snow. We ended up choosing a site by the beautiful lake for a base camp and spent the night there. The next two days turned out to be full of brisk hours sliding swifly along calm trails under snowfall, and two nights in our little tent early to cuddle close while the wind blew, the white clumps fell in thuds upon us and our toes squirmed in fleece booties for warmth.

After consistent winds and a deep cold beginning to set into our bodies like it had set into everything natural around us, after our sleeps had begun to come just after nightfall, 4pm, and our waking hours quickened and shortened their pace to match the abbreviated days, it almost seemed as if we ourselves had begun to remember something familiar of the cold again. We had become creatures increasingly attuned to it, living within it again, even for a short time. What would it be like, we wondered, to live out here for longer? To make it our lives to accept, and not deny this land? We were from the valley, it was true, and the instant transition had certainly shocked our senses in ways that weakened and awed us. But, perhaps, we were also shaking hands with this place. Seeing its face, at last.

My face was red, my fingers slow and clumbsy and my mind numb. The cold stood out above all the rest, above the lake, above my hunger and in the forefront of my mind. I saw Winter and met Winter and realized it was already my old friend, my reason for living, at least during this time of year.

It's snowing in the valley, and I'll not go into town.
If home to me means ocean, I will learn to swim or drown.
If in the sky, then I will fly,
If on the earth, I'll stand.
Fins or wings or legs will reach
Across this living land.