The Wonder of Winter

On this, the first day of spring, I pay homage to the Wonder of Winter.

At this point in the tropical year here in Canada, while I long for spring’s promise of hope eternal, my heart’s desire can be just as faithful to the frigid fallow and the embrace of winter’s rest and renewal.

Whether urban or rural, chaotic or orderly in nature, as spring beckons I take this moment to reflect back on the moments of pure clear light and misty murkiness that presented to me during the winter of my discontent.

It’s easy to run out into the swelter of summer and focus my lens on the colour and bounty of Mother Nature with nothing more than t-shirt and shorts adorning my body.

It’s quite another thing to don a parka, heavy boots, a hat and thick gloves and try to focus that same lens on the permeating permafrost.

So I dig deep, unafraid of the cold unknown, allowing the full extent of expression to come forth.

Cold. Sharp. Buried.

Winter offers my creative eye the unusual pairing of cold hands and warm promises.

I can choose to hibernate, hiding my thoughts and burying emotions, or I can embrace the harsh reality of winter’s dormancy and explore the “frozen” side of my art.

And when I do, bravery is rewarded.

There is nothing more satisfying to me than to capture the harsh, silent mystery of winter.

I cherish the times when I can escape the dull dampness of this season in the city with its grey, barren streets and brown snowless lawns, and head to the country where a mantle of white blankets the land in undisturbed splendor.

I feel a deep connection to nature in those rural moments.

O, the wonder of winter.

Listen. Can you hear it? It’s the sound of soft snowflakes falling through the branches to the forest floor.

It’s the sound of silence.

O, the wonder of winter.

Even the mundane can be beautiful if I take the time to see it while rushing from the car into the house.

My life is reflected in the tracks I leave behind in the snow (or the mud, pine needles and concrete I walk upon).

O, the wonder of winter.

There are, however, those moments in my winter of discontent when the city calls to me saying, “Come, David. Come capture the folly of fog as it settles across the valley in December.”

Bare trees. Black towers. Bleak expanse.

But how sublime is the subtlety of the pink sky born from the setting sun.

O, the wonder of winter.

And then the moment that makes it all worthwhile.

While I stand on an overpass freezing my butt off, having just taken that previous photo of the skyline, I spot something in the darkness below me.

The sun is at the perfect angle to reflect off the train tracks that run through the valley. Amidst the mist in the mystical forest emerge two filaments of light.

O, the wonder of winter.