When I am tired the whole world is in winter, frozen or about to deep-freeze. Today, storm Stella is pounding its way through the Northeast. I can only imagine.
Here in the southeast there is a cold sunshine with wind, 40° temperatures. More than enough winter to freeze over my slough of despond. The ego skates freely, spiraling into a series of what if’s.
The thaw of thought seems unlikely. The warmth just isn’t there. Or is it?
Many people seem to think it foolish, even superstitious,
to believe that the world could still change for the better.
And it is true that in winter it is sometimes so bitingly cold
that one is tempted to say, “What do I care if there is a summer;
its warmth is no help to me now.” Yes, evil often seems to
surpass good by far. But then, in spite of us, and without
our permission, there comes at last an end to the bitter frosts.
One morning the wind turns, and there is a thaw.
And so I still have hope.
From the Letters of Vincent van Gogh
As do I. Fatigue supports no free skater for long; the ego tires, too. Time’s breeze thaws bitter into sweet.