Like New England, my seasons change. I run hot and cold and in between. I am consumed with preparing for what the weather is likely to bring. I know the acorns will fall and the snow will pile up against my door. The sun will warm up the water so that I can bask in its smooth, warm depths. The mountains of green will strike out in vibrant color before becoming barren mounds. But so much is random and unpredictable, like the black ice lying in wait.
My nights fall early for most of the year. I have held on for dear life as the wind tunnels threaten to dislodge me. My neighbors are familiar, but visiting birds fly in from all over the world. I enjoy my sociability and my solitude. I become one with the sound of the tide. I climb the mountain until I am out of breath. I roll down the hills of fluffy snow. I make a snowman when the snow sticks. I enjoy the sound of crunching leaves under my feet. I bask in the sun. I lie on the grass and look into the sky. I sit on my favorite rock by the water.
Like the earth beneath my feet, I anticipate the changing seasons. Welcoming and dreading and feeling that familiarity of a long-term relationship. The crocus peering up through the hardened soil remind me there is a time to grow. Swimming in the summer ponds reminds me there is a time to heal. The falling leaves remind me that life is transient. Splashing in the autumn ponds reminds me I am vulnerable. The ice reminds me that life can be treacherous, but I know ice cleats help. My toes do thaw after ice skating. All in all, I have proven more resilient than I thought possible. All this, New England has taught me. It permeates my mind. It is my place, my mind’s place.
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