Light Returning

Years ago, I was in a meeting where seasonal marketing was the topic at hand, and a woman there suggested that February marks the beginning of Spring. She was from a more southern realm, one, I imagine, where in February tulips bloom and green leaves unfurl. Here, February is that place about three months into our five – give or take – months of winter.

While spring still seems a long way off, however, there are noticeable changes afoot. To me, the most welcome of these is the gradual return of light.

The abundance of darkness is the only thing about winter I do not like. I love the snow and the glittering of frost-covered trees. I can deal with the cold, thanks to the wonders of fleece and down, central heating (in our house via old steam radiators), a small space heater under my desk, and the comforting glow of a blaze in the fireplace. But the dark can be tough – physically, emotionally, mentally.  

It’s no wonder people have long celebrated the promise of lengthening days during the darkest season of the year – centering holidays around the solstice and engineering such marvels as Stonehenge to mark the sunset of the shortest day. I dread the lingering creep of darkness each November, weeks before we arrive at the first official day of winter. The distraction of Christmas and (in our family) a month of birthdays beyond the winter holidays buoys me during the season’s protracted darkness. But come February, I’m ready for a little bit more light, maybe even a sustained hint of warmth.

Even for this winter lover, at this point, deep into the season, I begin to feel as if I’ll never quite shake the chill of winter. As if the perennials buried under layers of snow and ice in the front garden will never green up and bloom. As if my thickly-stockinged feet will never again walk – unclad – along warm sand or soft grass.

But then, somewhere about half-way through this shortest month, I notice the light returning. I can set off on a late afternoon ski through the woods now and not worry about being caught in darkness. And on school day mornings, when I rouse my daughter from sleep and raise the blinds of her east-facing window, dawn is already breaking over the mountains. Only a few weeks ago, that eastern sky was still pitch black so early in the day, and darkness fell well before supper time each evening.

Now, it is still bright at 5 o’clock and not quite so dark on the other side of the windows as we move around the kitchen preparing dinner. On ski mornings, as we head down the hill toward the mountain, the sun is higher in the sky. Some days, that sun is obscured by falling snow. And that is the joy of February – it offers the best of two worlds: returning light and, often, the best skiing of the season. 

Original content published by Meghan McCarthy McPhaul. This essay appears as Meghan's February 25, 2021 Close to Home column in the Littleton Record. 

Winter Worth the Wait

Winter was late in coming this year. The week after Christmas (when it rained), I was still walking through the snowless woods in low boots, and we were only skiing thanks to the wonder of manmade snow. We haven’t really had a big storm yet this season, but the woods – behind our house and on the mountain – have slowly filled with snow. Many days over the past two weeks, I’ve looked up from my desk to see it snowing on the other side of the window – sometimes big, fluffy flakes swirling casually toward the ground, sometimes a fast-falling wall of white.

To someone who loves skiing, all those snowflakes are really distracting.

Skiing on weekends is a given in our house. But twice in the past week or so, I’ve loaded skis into the car on weekday afternoons and chucked the kids’ boot bags in on top of the skis. One of these outings was pre-planned and involved springing the youngest from school a little early. (I’ve called family powder days on occasion in the past, and since we live in a place where lots of people – including the principals at both schools – are skiers, I just straight up tell them we’re going skiing. Or I say we’re working on “outdoor education,” but they know what that means. And we’ve never been scolded.)

Tuesday, every time I glanced up from the keyboard, it was snowing. I had planned to just take the dog for a ski through the woods between meetings and other work tasks, but when I went out to run an errand mid-day, I brushed a couple of inches of fluff off the car, and then it snowed a good bit more. My two 8^th graders were at the mountain that afternoon for ski team practice. A friend sent a photo of a glade filled with fluffy, untracked powder. My distraction level was high.

So, I did what any ski-loving girl with a little scheduling flexibility would do. I donned my ski bibs, tossed my skis and my daughter’s into the minivan, and we headed up Three Mile Hill to the Mittersill Double straight from school pickup. There was hardly anyone on the hill, and we found plenty of untracked snow, even late in the afternoon. It was a sweet hour and a half on the slopes. Just the right number of runs to adjust my attitude, the break I needed to focus back on the work left to do at home.

Winter was late in coming this year, but it was worth the wait. 

Original content published by Meghan McCarthy McPhaul. This essay appears as Meghan's February 11, 2021 Close to Home column in the Littleton Record.