Today is the kind of day to stay inside, curled up on the sofa with a mug of hot chocolate and a blanket. It's December 9, the day after my 34th birthday, and snow is falling in the Tri-Cities. It's wet, sticking snow – the kind that's good for making snowmen, snow forts or snow angels. I looked outside a few minutes ago and there was a boy, probably about 10, with a snowball in his fist, arm wound back like a pitcher, and a look of delightful expectation on his face. I imagine it was his first snowball fight of the year.
Rather than stay inside, I felt inspired to drive to Columbia Park and take a walk along the river. The park was deserted, and the snowfall so thick I could barely see the water. But it felt good to walk, to be alone, to be cold, to have snow on my face and in my hair. It was a time of simple, natural bliss – the kind that's been missing from my life for the last several months – a time of communing with the sublime, of reawakening the Romantic in my soul.
There was a time in college when I was captivated by the Romantic poets, Wordsworth chief among them. Their words inspired in me something buoyant and alive. I could walk across campus and not just see, but feel the beauty in every leaf, every flower, every stone. I could feel it on every breath of wind. I would walk with my face to the sun, soaking in the expanse of the world and feeling confident about my place in it.
As I grew older, my enjoyment for simple beauties was displaced by the stress of living an adult life – work, balancing my checkbook, paying the car insurance, grocery shopping, vacuuming, working out, trying to get enough sleep, heartbreak. These things have filled every crack and cranny of my life, demanding attention and importance, until there was no room left for anything else.
I'm trying to do a better job of finding the hidden spaces in my life where things like a love of Wordsworth still lurk, and the hidden hours that I can spend walking in the snow.
