Blown Snow in the Face and Other Exhilarations

The temperature is in the single digits again, and though I knew what was in the forecast I was still surprised by the blanket outside the front door.  After three fresh inches of overnight snow I once again scraped clear the front porch, then fired up the tractor to clear the driveway.  It is only the second time this winter I have whirred the massive snow blower into service — the first being only yesterday after its prior snowfall.  We have shoveled the front porch, walk and garage entrance dozens of times — indeed, seemingly dozens of times this week — but the driveway, the long gravelly stretch out to the main road, never seemed to demand that same attention.

Until now.

I don’t mind the work.  In fact I rather enjoy the rumbling engine behind me, the billowing stream out in front of me, the cleared path beneath me, even the cold powdery blowback on my face.  Unlike so many exertions in life, with the snowblower you can readily see your accomplishment, even if a stiff wind or a renewed storm can undo what you’ve done.  No worries; I’ve got plenty of diesel.

The accumulating drifts have hemmed in the coops, so I slog my way to the chicken yard to shovel out clearings to invite a little avian activity.  It’s not only us, after all, who are prone to too much sedentariness.  While we sit on the sofa in front of the fireplace, they nestle on the roost or under the coop in the warmth of each other.  But we all need some movement and sunshine, and mine comes by clearing the space for theirs.   When my fingers numb from the cold beyond function I wag the shovel back to the garage and me back to the couch in front of the fire...

...to thaw out, yes, but also to remind myself that even this — even this week’s 10-12 inches of cumulative snow and the bitter cold — is garden preparation, albeit not of my doing.  It's always useful to recollect the humility that fruitfulness is not solely about my agency.  There are essentials beyond my doing.  The cold and the snow are winter’s contribution to fertility on which spring and summer depend.  Which is to say that important work is underway, even if it isn’t as sexy as blossom and bud and harvest.

I suspect the same can be said about the garden that is “me” in these quieter, stiller days nestled near the fire.  Who can say what all is breaking open, ruminating and germinating deep beneath the surface...

...while more visibly on the surface I wait impatiently for the temperature to warm, the snow to melt, and that more profligate season of spring to begin?  Waiting, that is, until the next snowfall dislodges my lethargy in service to the whirring, rumbling and shoveling labors outside.