Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

— Robert Frost, Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Winter hasn’t been normal the last few years in New England. Heck, what is normal nowadays anyway? We don’t always have to love snow, but we know it has its time and season. When we get it we celebrate the magic or curse the timing, disruptive to our very human plans as it seems to do. With it we recalculate what is possible in our days. Without it we wonder what we can control anymore in an upside down world.

Snow in January calms me. Sure, there are inconveniences and struggles associated with snow that are not found in southern climates, but with snow we get the reassurance of the seasons playing out. We must embrace change in our complicated lives, but Lord give me a winter in wintertime.

I write this on a mountaintop as snow falls all around this snow globe paradise. There’s magic quite literally in the air, and it piles up like dreams in a blessed lifetime. I watch with wonder knowing I have work to do still, but like old Robert Frost once upon a time, a pause to wonder at the beauty of a snowy moment is warranted. For the world goes on, and our youthful dance is the briefest of seasons.