Snow, Carefully

The snow that fell two weeks ago has hardened into something glassy and unyielding, not unlike the cooled lava I once walked near in Hawaii—beautiful, fixed, and everywhere. It presses against roads and pathways that once felt easy, transforming ordinary movement into something that requires patience and care. I look toward the recycling bin along the side of the house and know, without quite deciding it, that today is not the day to risk an angry twist of fate with my bad knee. Staying indoors feels less like hesitation and more like preservation.

And yet, I still love winter. It asks us to slow down and dress with intention. Sweaters become essential companions, and I know which ones truly hold warmth and which silently surrender to the cold at the wrists. A sweater I began knitting years ago—once too heavy to imagine wearing—has returned to me at just the right moment. Now it belongs to this season. I work on it in the late afternoons, the wool resting across my lap like a sleeping cat, each stitch a small answer to the cold outside.

A new part-time job I love carries me outdoors in the early mornings a few days each week, and I have learned the comfort of proper layers. Long johns in soft fleece and smooth black knits that hold my shoulders and back in steady warmth. Soon, a merino wool undershirt from my sister will join them. These layers stay close beneath my sweaters, even after I am home again, and I wonder why I resisted such wisdom for so long. Perhaps vanity once had its say, but today’s fibers are kinder, offering warmth without a weighty silhouette.

Winter dries everything it touches, including my skin. One evening, searching for relief for flaky eyelids, I opened a sample of a special eye mask and discovered it worked best when used gently, like a cream. A visit to my local cosmetic emporium confirmed that many others had made the same quiet discovery. It was a splurge, yes, but the skin around my eyes has never felt so calm and healthy. There is something deeply winter-like about this kind of care—attentive and protective.  And like winter, I am unhurried.

The snow remains outside, still sharp and unmoving, a pale echo of those distant lava fields that fascinated me once. It waits along the edges of my days, reminding me to move carefully, to layer thoughtfully, and to stay close to what offers warmth. For now, staying indoors in the afternoon and evening feels exactly right—an act of intention and a seasonal kind of grace.