Winter Wonderings

With every leaf that drifts through the breeze on its journey to the ground, winter draws nearer and nearer. As I contemplate the advent of this icy season, I ponder over all that I look forward to with great anticipation, as well as that which I dread.

What do I like about winter? Much. Fitted coats with stylish cuts; slouch boots, heeled or flat; tights; feminine sweaters; all the clothing that flatters and covers all the unseemly parts of me. I also love the smell of burning dust the first time my heater runs, the downy soft layers of winter blankets, flannel pajamas, eggnog, coffee, tea, and comfort food. Most of all, I love the Christmas season. Solemn hymns reverberate the air waves, homes are decked out in twinkly adornments, and my heart reflects on my one true Savior, and his birth and all that followed from that moment of destiny beneath the Star of David. I eagerly anticipate studying Charles Dickens's A Christmas Carol with my seventh graders--not just because it deals with repentance and deliverance, but because I admire the truth and poignancy of Dickens's writing, along with his willingness to reveal the social injustices of his fast-paced industrial age, while imparting a mantle of hope upon the hearts of his readers.

But there are things I regret about winter, as well. I do not enjoy the early manifestation of nothingness each day as the sun rushes to the horizon to warm the souls of another portion of this vast earth. And while I love the things that guard me from the cold, I do not enjoy the feeling of it - the chill in the air that clings to, rather, penetrates, the skin. And while I relish the pillowed silences on mornings after a snow, I do not prefer the mushy slush deposits left behind in the days that follow. Most of all, I detest the anxiety that night brings, and since night falls so early, the anxiety creeps in earlier and earlier and earlier, until December 21st.

Nevertheless, I indulge in the lengthy cuddle sessions with my husband and two cats, the fact that my little pookies sleep nearer to me, and soon enough, Professor Macgonagall will sleep on my chest to keep warm. And maybe, just maybe, the love our little family shares suffuses with fresh vigor, as it burns and radiates with heightened spirit, campaigning ferociously against the cold and the dark and the shadows and the anxiety that threatens to corrupt all that could be pure as the wintry snow in this stage of resiliency we find ourselves persevering through at each year's end.

Under Pressure

I guarantee there is a reason why I drew a hot air balloon. Here I am, contemplating my reaction to a high pressure work environment, when the following quote enters my brain, "Some things explode under pressure...others soar..and others are yet unmoved," and then into my mind pops a serene image: a hot air balloon floating gracefully among the clouds. I let my mind ponder that picture for a moment, and I decide, "I am going to draw this..." Then, I vacillate. Will my balloon succumb to the fire that propels it? The image of a balloon dancing among flames enters for a brief second, but I discard that representation and resume the prior imagining of the blithe mass soaring above the earth.

I draw the balloon.

As I am intently constructing this vehicle of emotion, I ponder..."Is this a coincidence? Am I drawing a balloon in flight because I simply thought of this likeness randomly?" In answer, I discover that is not the case at all. Somewhere between conscious and subconscious, my mind has fixed upon the perfect metaphor for my present plight in life. Consider the hot air balloon: this machine of primitive invention requires nothing more than hot and cold air within an airy envelope to waft itself into the atmosphere. How is the air manipulated? With pressure. By blowing hot air into a space filled with cold, molecules perform a rhythmic gyration increasing the density of air pressure diffusing within a fixed space. As such motion incurs, the balloon is swept up into the airy heavens for a halcyon journey above all cares and distress associated with life on the ground. Passengers of such machines can literally indulge in dreamy wonders with their heads in the clouds!

With that said, how does this operative vehicle represent my station in life at present? I am under intense pressure on the job to perform. This pressure is both external and internal, but I am perplexed about how to respond. I feel as though my corporeal body will actually explode, disintegrating into shards of myself, but this image came to me at the most opportune time. I can only imagine and hope that perhaps, this image is meant to encourage...perhaps, this is an opportunity to soar. I don't just mean an opportunity to outperform, but I hope this is my opportunity to soar above the burdens at work, and desist in allowing the compression to discourage me. Maybe I can transcend this menial encumbrance.