Tuscaloosa, Alabama

Never is the dichotomy of life and death — hope and despair — so apparent as in the winter season, when Nature wraps her icy fingers around the throat even as she whispers the promise of Spring. Frost covers the nurturing earth; plants lie limp and motionless; animals gather in miserable huddles; people shuffle from place to place, secretly relieved to be wrapped in their designer cocoons, insulated from the world.

It is the season of Light, the season of Cheer, the season of Hope, the season of Peace. Without the winter, there can be no spring — without the darkness, the light becomes meaningless. Like so much of life, winter is a test of faith — an innate, unwavering belief that the frost will abate and the flowers will return in an even gaudier display of abundance than the previous year.

How much easier winter would be if we could just find the beauty in the frost, see the brilliant sparkles in the sunlight, appreciate the fragile life that it is covering and preserving for Just The Right Moment. Instead, we hasten through our winters, blindly running from the darkness in fear, never pausing to savor the bitter cold that is bending us, breaking us in preparation for Spring’s new growth.

But on the coldest of nights, on the darkest of days, what warmth is there in the memories of Springs past? What light can remain from those summer friendships, so swiftly fleeting? What comfort can be found in a future as yet untold?

Only Winter knows the answer, and so far, he’s not telling.