A Midwinter Night's Dream

It's the kind of eerie darkness outside that smacks of alternate realities. The true night sky is pitch black. Stars are scarce and the moon nothing more than a slender curve. I know intuitively that it should be blindingly dark outside and yet it's not. Clouds carry spare rays of sunlight from somewhere far to the west, casting a dismal glow over the snow and trees. It's not enough, though. I want to see better than I can. My mind is playing tricks on me. My eyes see the light from the gray clouds, but my brain processes only the deep ebony of a moonless night. I feel as though I am in another place, far away from anywhere I've ever been. Night isn't night but isn't day. It isn't cold but the air pierces my lungs. I am exhausted but in the darkness-non-darkness I am alert and I feel alive. It is meditative, it is ethereal. I'm somewhere in limbo, in the purgatory of winter nights.

Put on Your Yamikah...Smoke Some Marijuanakah

(Warning: Illicit substance use, please read at your own discretion, i.e. don't show to children.)

Thanks to Leah for texting me to let me know it was the first night of Channukah last night. Clearly I am very on top of my game out here. I guess that's what happens when you don't know any other Jews. Lacking a menorah and even a potato of any substantive size, I pretty much neglected the holiday altogether. I did have french fries with dinner, which I suppose can be substituted for latkes if the situation necessitates, as did last night. I told a rough version of the Channukah story by way of explanation to a friend who didn't know what the (non) holiday is all about:

"Once upon a time when the Romans or someone occupied Jerusalem, they desecrated the temple, so Judah Maccabee and his Maccabee fighter guys fought back. And then they won the temple back and they had to light the eternal light thing, but they only had enough oil for one night, but it lasted for eight nights, and that's the miracle of Channukah. That's why it's eight nights and we light candles." (And someone let me teach Hebrew School...might have been a mistake.)

I was then informed that Judah Maccabee sounded like a Scottish name, and we all went on a diatribe about how the winter holidays (Channukah, Christmas, Kwanzaa...?) used to have legitimate significance but have in modern times become so commercialized the only point is to compare gifts with your friends.

In the end it was decided that my Channukah celebration fit all the general requirements. I ate french fries, which are like latkes, I lit two bowls, which is like lighting two candles (hopefully I'll figure out a non-mind-altering alternative for nights higher than four or five), and I kind of told the Channukah story. I did not say the Channukah blessings, as it felt a little bizarre to say brachot over weed. Although I'm sure one exists...I'll have to seek out my local Chabad rabbi and ask him.

Musings

I walked home from yoga through the snow this morning. It was beautiful. It's finally starting to feel like winter, rather than just bitter cold with nothing but dry skin to show for it. It might have been the zen-like trance that settles over you after practicing yoga, but I really think it is the serenity and the silence of fat fluffy flakes landing on your hat, on your mittens, and in your eyelashes. It feels like it's been a long time since I've really been somewhere with snow. This is definitely the first time since high school I've spent a whole, real winter somewhere. The slush and freezing rain of Philadelphia never fulfilled my yen for real snow, and winter breaks in Maine never seemed to be enough.

Snow is somehow utterly nostalgic and yet always new, always fresh. You never see the same snow twice, but it's like an old friend you haven't seen in months or years. Comforting, yet approached with trepidation, until you've made your peace with it and arrived back at your infinite and unchanging relationship with the snow; a snowball fight, a snow angel, a donut in a parking lot, standing outside with your mouth open wide, curled up by the fire with a mug of hot chocolate listening to the blizzard, or not until the day after when fresh powder covers the mountain and your patience has finally paid off.

This is the excitement in the air when the snow comes. Snow is the ghost of winters past, present, and future. Always different, yet always the same.

If All The Snowflakes

It finally started snowing yesterday evening, and it's about time. I made the questionable decision to ski on Saturday, when the mountain was packed with Denver-ites and turning into a giant ice rink. I fell on every run I took, was scolded by ski patrol to slow down, and even crashed into a control fence at the bottom of an icy blue. Then yesterday's windchill was -40 at the top, and I decided to stash the skis until my bruised legs have healed and we get some fresh, natural snow. Finger's crossed this storm keeps up.

Frost Bites

I woke up at 8:30 in the morning yesterday, sat up, and Katelynn (roommate) informed me that it was snowing. I jumped out of bed: "LET'S GO SKIING!" Not realizing that the warmth of the last few weeks was completely dependent on the sun, I was totally unprepared for the bone-chillingness of the snowy morning. Overcast and with a windchill below zero thanks to 20 mph gusts at the top of the mountain, even the snow flurries were devastatingly unpleasant. I took three runs and couldn't take it. Once I got inside I ran my freezing hands under warm water, which burned, and I wanted to cry. I got to work at 12 and drank probably 20 ounces of hot chocolate and 20 ounces of hot tea, and it took an hour or two to stop shivering. Basically, skiing is NOT highly recommended unless performed safely in a cocoon of electric blankets, or at least millions of layers.

Here's the weather forecast for the next few days:

A Hitchhiker's Guide to Colorado

We passed a hitchhiker thumbing his way to Denver the other morning on the way to work. He was standing on the curb with his coffee and a cardboard sign reading "Denver."

"He's standing in a terrible spot - no on can pull over to pick him up right there. He should be standing just down here, where cars can pull over safely. No one's going to pick him up there. He should move. At least he's got a sign though, that makes it easier."

Only in Colorado...

Bruce

Today I met a man name Bruce. Bruce was standing against a stop sign, long wooden walking stick in hand, in bright orange snow pants, a winter coat, yellow-lens sunglasses, and a lavender knit hat with a giant pompom on top which covered his long white hair falling out of its ponytail. His face was wrinkled, his mouth crooked, and his words were slurred with the speech of a survivor.

I asked Bruce if this was where the shuttle picked up. "It certainly is, it should be here directly." I set down my bag of groceries and prepared to wait.

"You're a beautiful young lady." I thanked Bruce. "I like to give compliments when I can," Bruce told me. "There's a quote that goes something like, you should always do good where you can because you never know when you'll pass that way again."

"Another beautiful day in paradise," Bruce commented. I looked around at the nearly cloudless skies accenting the sharp mountain peaks in the distance and agreed. "This is why I live out here." It's why we all live out here, isn't it? "It sure is. Came out here and never left. I'm living the dream out here." We all are, everyone who lives here. We're all living the dream. "That is true. We're living the dream. We are the dream. Let me rephrase that: We are the dream. All of us out here - we be. We are the be people, we have that be attitude. We live in the now. We are the dream."

"You know, I'm fifty-five now, and I'm gonna live till I'm one hundred and twenty." (Could've fooled me; I would have guessed at least seventy.) You're not even halfway there. "Got sixty-five years left." That's a lot of years. "Well if they go as fast as the last fifty five, that's not so many. I love my life. I have fun." That's all that matters. "Sure is. I can't complain." That's good. "You know, I never complain. When you complain, you ruin someone's day." That's true. "I always speak the truth. I haven't told you one thing that's a lie."

"You know, I love my life. I tried to commit suicide a bunch of times, but I'm glad I didn't die. I love my life." (Speechless.) "Last time I did it, I ate thirty Xanax and forty Aricept." I wouldn't just gotten sick of swallowing all those pills. "Well I chewed 'em up. Ended up in the hospital, killed my liver. I was on the transplant list for a new liver - they had my name on that list. Then they gave me something to drink and it fixed my liver right up. I'm glad I lived."

"You know what I really want to do?" What's that? "I want to give meals to the homeless." That's a good thing to do. "You know, when you do things like that, you get back more than you give. Believe me. It doesn't seem like it, but you do. Not enough people give anymore. It's all 'gimme gimme gimme.' That's no way to live. That's why this world is going to hell in a hand basket." It sure is.

"I'm sorry I'm lecturing you." No problem, gives me something to think about while I'm standing here. "It's important to do something, think about things, keep the mental garden growing. Whatever the human mind can conceive it can perceive - no, whatever the human mind can perceive, it can conceive. You know what I mean? You should never be bored. I always say, do something constructive. It doesn't matter what it is, as long as you're doing something. Never be bored."

The bus came, and Bruce and I got on. "I enjoyed talking to you." Yes, it was interesting, thank you. "Thank you. I don't know if our paths will cross again, but I hope they do, I did enjoy meeting you." It's a small town. "Sure is, this town is a small town."