Wednesday, January 13, 2016


The ice on the windshield is like sandpaper as I run the scraper from side to side, laying my weight into the stokes. The ice is thick and doesn't want to surrender its grip on my windshield.

I don't blame it. Ice doesn't get much opportunity here in southern Arizona. It's January, the short taste of cold here. The air is pristine, having been rinsed by recent rains. It's clear enough to make out details of mountain ranges fifty miles distant.

So, yes, the ice is stubborn, but it's a fair trade for the sweet air, crisp with frost.

I have to confess that I like the dark. When the cat wakes me at 4:30, I am more than ready to get up and moving. The chill helps. It does not reward lingering. For introverts, a world where everyone else is home sleeping is paradise.

I go down to a coffee shop where I have the place to myself until the sun comes up. Once there, I entertain the rare glimpses of an inner life. I hear a heart still hungry for love, a desire to be free to express what bubbles up inside, see a path to happiness that I might follow. These days are rare and sweet and will soon come to an end. The light and heat are coming back, and that is happening earlier and earlier.

Soon, the air will warm enough to prevent frost, the sky will lighten enough to wake the others, and the air will again take on the warmth of desert spring. For now, though, it's quiet, dark, and mine. Conditions are right for a moment of quiet before the noise of a new semester drowns out even the strongest of inner hopes.

I need to harvest these nuggets, to gather them together, and then to remember when the heat presses me to forget. 

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