An icy arctic wind sank its teeth into the land and shook it soundly for two days, blowing a powdery snow across the fields, the dust of summer’s memories. For the first time in my humble on-earth tenure, the word “hazy” appeared in the day’s wintry forecast, borrowed from a late July morning now blurry ‘round the edges. With deep respect for all that’s going on outside our windowpanes, the morning walk has been wisely postponed; I’ll have to make do with a few laps around the living room and extra trips upstairs to fetch things I’ve forgotten.

Makeshift window quilts have darkened most rooms, doing their best to hold in the heat from our brave little furnace below deck. Beneath two extra blankets on the bed, Patrick and I are swaddled into deeper sleep and completely in favor of hibernating right along with everyone else who curls up and hunkers down until late March. Well, we’ll get to try it for a week anyway, since we’re both off work until after the first of the year. Now, what to do with the kittens whose cabin fever is inching toward manic…

It’s not hard to call up those days in late June when I sweated my way through the installation of our garden’s pallet enclosure, one t-post at a time. Awake and on task by 5:00a.m. with that first smidgen of light, determined to earn my breakfast, I pulled on jeans and work boots and an old t-shirt with the sleeves cut off and stopped just short of melting point an hour later (few things are more indulgent than a mid-morning nap after Extreme Heat exertions, with an oscillating floor fan pushing the last bits of the day’s cooler air around one’s toes and forehead). Standing at the mudroom door this morning, layered up and looking out across the snow-blown trellis and raised beds, I think of the garlic we planted in October, silent in awe of a tiny bulb’s quiet purpose. Another testament to the power of rest.

We were also able to get all of the tulip bulbs planted long before the ground froze, a race against the clock that competed with our work and market schedules, with a solid plan come spring to defend them against our curious and hungry raccoons who see any bed of freshly turned earth as an invitation to dine on whatever they find below. Tucked in five inches with a sprinkle of bone meal and a fluffy (now frozen) top dressing of crumbled leaves, these sleeping heirloom beauties are waiting patiently for their moment in the sun, still a dozen or so weeks away. When winter feels unending, I lean on the mystery of every living being that goes under for the duration. The surprises of spring make me a preschooler again, rooted in wonder and a million “How?”s. I’ll even walk lightly around their beds so I won’t disturb their dreams.

This holiday weekend storm was hailed in its scope and breadth across the nation as “once in a generation” and has all but buried western New York. I think about those who must be out in it, by choice or circumstance, and send them a continuous stream of prayerful warmth, for whatever good that may do. But some have died in snowbanks or in their heatless homes and the harsh reality of natural forces beyond our control sits firmly among our most urgent pleas for mercy. I won’t stop the flow of fierce (and warm) hope in their direction, of course, but I’ll temper it with a reluctant acceptance that everything has its limits. The black-capped chickadees and cardinals at the feeders are bustling about with focused intention, less play and more work to get at the frozen suet rich with seeds and bits of cracked corn. And they do it all with what seems to be a thin covering of feathers, rapid heartbeats and nothing for their tiny feet. For this storm, we missed the chance to fortify a mourning dove’s shelter options and have already researched how to support a bird in winter; when the temperatures climb above freezing, we’ll take one of our vacation days and head outside to do what we can for these tiny relatives of ours (I’ll let go of the temptation to knit them little slippers, as I suspect that would only weigh them down).

Until then, we’ll wait it out, tethered to our dependence on electricity and propane and distract ourselves with the kittens’ antics as they sit motionless at the window, their gazes fixed on a tufted titmouse perched on the shepherd’s hook (ahhh…so close and yet, so far…). The world on the other side of the glass has things under control, whether I understand it fully or not. My job is to not add to their challenges with my folly, but to let them be and be grateful I even get to watch how they go about their days. When the season hangs out its “do not disturb” sign, best to obey and trust.

Mustn’t wake the sleeping tulips, my friends. Every one of my hopes for spring is wrapped around them, five inches below the surface.

Shhh…