The air hurts my face.
An inch of ice has frozen several of my windows shut.
I have two vehicles in the driveway that don’t want to start.
The sun rose at 10:00am, and was gone by 4:00pm.
It’s January, the most wonderful time of the year.
Make a case for summer all you want, but I recall (without much fondness) laying on my hardwood floor in 95 degree heat, praying for a swift wind to remove wildfire smoke so we could breathe clean air again.
And spring in Alaska is a mess. The smell of melting dog feces competes with new vegetation, and lakes of slushy puddles at every intersection cause muddy spray that obscures every vehicle window. Also, the bears wake up.
Fall? I am certainly a fan. Were I a hunter, I’m sure that fall would take the prize — it does for many of my friends — but fall also ushers in freezing rain, disappointing elections, and the stress of the holidays.
No, winter takes the prize. And the pièce de résistance of winter is January, my old friend.
The cold of winter slows everyone down and causes us to reflect more deeply on the important things in life, like not dying of hypothermia, or losing a toe to frostbite. January is when we get to see what people are made of, which ones are willing to brave a blizzard to make it to work on time, or who will make that harrowing trip across town to visit a friend in need — anyone will come over in June.
January is when we jump each other’s vehicles (or share rides when cars won’t start), play hockey outdoors, offer hot cocoa to our friend’s kids on the tops of sledding hills, and sink into those fireside chairs with a cozy beverage, grateful for the warm fur of a fuzzy companion.
The year always ends at a breakneck speed, but January is when you get to regain your bearings, like stepping off a roller coaster and resting on a bench to gear up for the next adventure. In January people are more available, friends linger longer over second and third cups of coffee because those fish in the lakes aren’t going anywhere. There’s no need to spend half of your Saturday behind a push mower, no out-of-state guests to shepherd to places you’ve been to a hundred times already, and no need to feign interest in Little League game number 329. There are no mosquitoes to swat, no wildfires to pray against, and no political ads to escape.
In January, the shining sun is a pleasant friend I share my coffee with rather than a cruel brute I need to hide from. I watch him set behind the snow-covered horizon and say, “Good night, friend.” Behind him, the purple moon clocks in for the night shift, determined to showcase its own luminary display as if to say, “Oh yeah, I can do better. Watch this.”
A thick summer fog brings a morning of wet, smelly stink, whereas a winter fog leaves a forest of frost-covered tree branches in its wake. And when the temperature is cold enough, you can walk up to them and see the intricate detail of a million snowflakes suspended in time.
January is when we reassess our victories and plan our attacks for the next battle. It’s when we re-fit and re-arm, when we finally have time to hit the shop and rebuild that engine, edit that book, or examine that relationship.
The slow crawl of the calendar in January brings clarity and renewed purpose. Every sub-zero day reminds us that we can do hard things. The elements make us grateful for things we take for granted at easier times of the year. So when I look out at my deck and see the thermometer has dropped to -25 degrees, I’m thankful for another opportunity to look life in the face and say, “Alright, we’ll just see about that.”
P.S. If you’re teetering on the edge, but still need another reason to embrace January, there is always this:
