The In Between

The rusty red brilliance of the wintered over blueberry barrens emerge with the snowy melt.  The hours of light lengthen.   According to the calendar, we can say that we survived another Maine winter.  My feet are still bound warm by woolies and a hand knit alpaca scarf is wound loosely around my neck for the snuggly warm effect.     Winter-like evenings remain punctuated by warming stews and soups, long luscious reads and early to bed under the weighted piles of blankets. All this is comfort amidst the harshness of winter.  I can’t say that I am grieving the passing of this cold season.  There is an impatience that I cannot temper easily.  Gone are the clamp-ons that allowed me to walk safely on frozen ground, gone are the down jackets, snow shoes, ice scrapers and snow melt thrown onto the steps. Gone at least in my mind at this moment, that is until the next spring snowstorm pays the Northeast a visit.  I’m doing my best to accept whatever comes.  Yet, I can’t help it, I find myself anticipating my toes wiggling free in flip flops and that first long swim in the lake-the cool water slipping passed me between strokes.   For now, I try to embrace the in-between.