Dwight Street
I went to bed last night with the wind howling, a sharp mixture of snow and ice rattling against my windows. It had been snowing since noon, the flakes piling up on the waist-high snow banks at every street corner--and I was tired of it, tired of winter, and only halfway through it, at best. I peered outside yesterday afternoon, trying to see the beauty in the swirling snow, but only feeling wearied by it.
But I had the great good fortune of waking up at 6:30 this morning to go to my yoga class at the gym a few blocks away. As I stepped out my back door, I gasped--I hadn't realized how much it had snowed. I plodded towards the back gate, snow slipping into my tall rubber boots. I pushed the gate open enough to squeeze through, and scampered through the parking lot behind the house, which had already been plowed. The sky was perfectly clear, the sun not quite risen, a waning moon slung low to the south. The street was almost entirely silent. I walked through the road, since the sidewalks had not yet been clear, delighted. A few cars slowly swooshed past. It's funny how having to do something out of the ordinary like walking in the road makes you interact differently with the people you encounter, makes you more willing to smile and say good morning. There is a solidarity more easily found in such situations, a recognition of a common humanity--we were all just trying to get to where we were going.
My yoga teacher never arrived, and I don't blame her; but I was glad to be out of bed regardless. I did yoga in my bedroom, watched the sun kiss the eastern faces of the houses across the street, then went upstairs to make oatmeal--a perfect snowy morning.
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