Happy...ish

To be entirely honest, I like snow about as much as an indoor cat would...Even bundled up with a woolly hat and gloves which always make me feel muffled and restricted, I am just cold.... I can't get used to the winters here. My blood was born in South-Africa where it snowed just once every 10 years, and the Jacaranda trees and bouganvillia's bloomed under a strong, fierce sun. There is a winter there, but you can almost always find a patch of sun in the middle of the day to sit in.

That being said, I do love the white surreal flakes of snow as they descend softly and gently like falling in love, especially in the dark when the street lamps turn the flakes gold, and the falling seems gorgeous and infinite.

A densely falling snow seems like a 'tabula rasa' to me, a blank slate of possibilities... as colors, tones and edges are softened and disappear into the whitening.

This is where I am in my life too, wondering where I want my footprints to go once all the snow has fallen, knowing they will grow, melt and widen along the edges, as each of my choices ripple and cement themselves as my 'path'.

All I know is living with courage takes ever more courage every single day. It has never been about the act of jumping off a mountain and flying into the rushing breezes, but a thousand little decisions. A thousand little braveries. Especially since I choose foremost, a life lived mindfully, with each choice shaped with love and wisdom.

Even if I know what I ultimately want, the getting there gracefully, is part of the serene reason. Like my staid, dry math teacher telling me she needs to know not just the answer but the quality of the formula for getting there. The answer alone is not nearly enough.

Today's snow is scant, a promise of future storms. I walk with Dovi in the thin dusting and he says "I am happy...ish". I laughed at this Calvin and Hobbes-esque sentiment.

"Why ish?"

"Because its cold." It is cold... freezing... We walk past a coffee shop. Outside stands a girl, looking tense. She had that faintly hysterical, red rimmed look of someone standing stalwart in the frigid weather, trying to finish their cigarette before their nerve gave in. Other commuters rushed past us, their necks sunk deeply into their collars, hatted and gloved in a myriad of colors.

The walk to school is not long, but Dovi is looking like the 'ish' of 'happy...ish' is broadening...

"What color are my cheeks?" he asks.

"Pink!" I said.

He looked disgusted, but as we turned the corner and approached the schoolyard, he saw the clean whiteness of it. "Look!" he said, delight in his voice.

I did...