I find that both my writing style and attitude shifts with the season. While summer writing tends to lean towards whimsy and wistfulness, winter writing stubbornly roots itself in the introspective, and deeply thoughtful. As I grew older, I realized that these writing shifts were not an individual trait of mine, but a tradition born from the lack of sun, and chilled weather that makes human beings cower indoors for months on end. This temperate shift in weather makes me wonder if writers in climates more pleasant than mine experience the same change, or are wistful year-round.
On that note, my introspective and thoughtful writing word vomit today came from a moment of random spying: while peering out the window during a momentary break from work, I saw crushed ice on the sidewalk. It was an unassuming and disorganized pile, and likely broken into unceremonious jigsaw pieces while myself and others walked to-and-fro from the front door to mailbox.
Still, I found myself thinking of all the times I’ve crushed winter ice beneath my feet, walking to-and-fro to places. Walking outside during the bitter winter cold is not always a pleasant adventure, but it opens up a world of chapped lips, homemade knitted scarves and vulnerability. I am one of many who cannot stand winter cold for but a second, but I once braved the ice in heels for fifteen minutes of frigid wedding pictures. I am eternally grateful for my groomsman, who held me fast while I navigated treacherous and uneven ground with heels that measured three inches.
Yes, I am a wimp in heels. Please hand me tennis shoes on my own wedding day, and the bride will happily grin.
Journeys for shopping, attending class, heading to work or playing with friends have previously placed me outdoors in the crunchy ice and snow. I look outside my window and am reminded of how dependent I am on my protective things: my house, with a roof and furnace for heat; my clothing, mismatched due to laundry day but nevertheless warm; my fleece blanket, now pitifully worn with tiny balls of lint neatly spaced over its soft surface; and even my cat, my dedicated lap companion of thirteen years.
If only he were less grumpy these days, and less prone to laying on my left arm whilst it types. If only I could blame my frequent grammar trespasses on him.
An introspective word vomit today, born from a moment of staring at crushed winter ice. If I wrote a similar thing in summer, I am not sure what words would spout from my wayward fingers. Still, I welcome these thoughts and moments of word fancy, despite the precious time it diverts me from work to be done.
The ice photograph is courtesy of user audreyjm529 of Flickr.