This morning, I made the decision to lace up my Bear Paw boots, the ones I’ve had for six years now. I got them from Nordstrom Rack using Afterpay, a payment plan that made them manageable without breaking the bank. At $250, they’re my pride and joy, but I’ve always been practical about winter gear. I get the good gloves, the good hats, the good boots, warmth that lasts, without splurging. Even my jacket, an old yard sale find for $2, has carried me through countless snowy mornings. It’s filled with down, worn but steadfast, and it’s lasted me 7 years, a few stitches here and there.
I love the snow. Watching it fall is like a burst of serotonin. I love to play in it... building snowmen, forts, different sculptures, and even painting them with food coloring in spray bottles. I can’t make winter go away, so I find ways to enjoy it. Staying warm isn’t just practical... it’s my way of making winter fun, of being fully present in it, instead of wishing it would pass.
It’s still early. I’ve been up for hours because the dog's bladder, and internal clock, don’t understand that there’s no school today. Bundled up in my winter armor, I carried a box of burnables down to the burn pit. Among them, Christmas wrapping paper, the evidence of what Santa used to wrap the stocking stuffers. Some secrets are best destroyed in flames. As I stood there, watching the smoke rise and thinking about the quiet snow, I realized how beautiful this morning was, no traffic, a few brave birds singing, and snow falling steadily.
The walk that followed wasn’t intentional. It started with a simple, “let’s just check the mailbox from yesterday.” And then, like a gentle domino effect, and Forrest Gump in my head, I thought, “well, since I’ve gotten this far, I’ll just walk up to the stop sign... and then down the next road... and then another...” Before I knew it, I had wandered through quiet streets, snow crunching under my boots, until I found myself back at home.
Beside me, my border collie trotted with a quiet mischief, always just a little ahead. He’s better trained off-leash than on, and it shows in the way he moves and his prints in the unplowed snow, zigging and zagging from tree to tree, nose buried in the snow and underbrush, following scents I can’t even imagine. Every patch of ground tells a story, and he investigates with a thoroughness that makes me smile. Somewhere along the way, he leaves his mark, a trace of yellow on a shrub, a tiny signature that says, “this was me.” One command, a gentle “heel,” is all it takes for him to pause, letting me catch up before carrying on with his exploration.
Walking with him is a little dance of trust and freedom, he reminds me to notice the small things, the curves of the road, the patterns in the snow, the scent of winter air, and to find joy in the quiet companionship of a dog who’s entirely himself, yet entirely tuned in to you.
By the time I looped back home, I had a sense of quiet satisfaction. It wasn’t a long walk or a carefully planned one. It was just the right amount of wandering, the right mix of snow, smoke, boots, and paws. A Christmas morning that felt both ordinary and magical, and a reminder that sometimes the best moments come from letting yourself move a little further than you expected, with someone, or some dog, by your side.
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