​I imagine Winter in a variety of guises. But the one ushering in the season this year is impatient, blustery, and sneaky. Usually the wind doesn’t jab quite so sharply until January, but there it is anyway; that edge of raw off the ocean filled with shards of ice. 

So I scheduled my car tires to be replaced. It’s a whole process when one small island garage wrenches off every tire in town. I slipped in line though and got scheduled. It’s a fat wad of cash to heft over. It’s also a fake bunch of numbers thrown around when what I’m really buying is the belief that local business is better. I’ve been doing that since I had authority over such choices. It’s a blessing and a curse. 

 I pick my way through the daily interactions with much more awareness than the days when I had a suckling baby hanging off my back. So many conversations must have been filled with off the rails observations falling out of my sleep deprived mouth. It’s a continual example of forgiveness and grace. The same lady takes my paycheck now as did when I stood there defeated knowing it still wasn’t enough. She knows I’ve steadily gotten raises and managed to sock away enough for a new car finally. She sees I make payments. All this over the counter with a casual exchange of papers and another pocketed pen. 

Winter is when locals see each other again. We are at the store and the gas station. We are getting year end things at the town office. It’s strange that we are always here, in the background, but winter seems a unique window of opportunity of making amends and being deliberate in doing so. Sometimes the degrees of separation demand it be carried out with a precision only known to the gods. Some days the combination of people I see while doing errands makes for an episode of a sitcom. We can run, we can even hide, but eventually the island will show what’s what.

I moved away from winter twice but here I am looking for my shovel. I’ve bought several over the years from the hardware store. The guy knows I get sour gummy bears every time I’m there too. He has probably figured out that when I’m there I know what I need because I’m in my “Get ‘er Dun” mood. Tools? Paint? Rope? Let’s go! I understand the primal thing when I’m there. Every door in town has a story and a question. I’ve watched buildings evolve and passed keys around. I have been in strange places at strange times with strange people. But the next day those people and places are arranged differently and I am just a piece of the stained glass. Imagine standing with people who kind of know each other through brief interactions. I “know” a Blue Car Lady and The Big Not Dave because I see these people in traffic, at the store, getting gas, at someone’s picnic but we never actually talk. That’s how it goes here. 

I am a transplant but now I’m also the one that stayed. My circles shift as people move away and grow. I see the imprints of my other selves trailing like smoke trying to catch up to my fire as I churn through another week. Every New Years I am relieved and surprised that the island and I are still on speaking terms. It is quiet beneath the gusty wind and slushy waves but the island is steady. The recalibration I’ve allowed in coming to understand that beat is what ultimately keeps this place humming. If not me, someone else, for eons will walk the coast, follow the deer trail, see the rainbow over Western mountain. it all exists for the joy of being seen and felt which has perhaps been its greatest lesson.

I made friends with winter the year I dug a path a mile into the woods. I just kept at it because I could. I cleared it out after a snow and dug some more. But it was all on my terms which was a belligerent idea to me at the time. I took it out on snow and we both came away alright.

Of the many things winter is and tells me and produces, a peacefulness beyond understanding is what I found in the sparkles of fresh snow and the crack of frozen branches. I don’t love being cold or having snow down my boots, but I love winter. It is this magic that shines through the townspeople. We hold doors for each other and carry bags out to the car because we all have seen each other in every situation over our lifetimes. We know some days we drop the eggs and cry while other days we have babies and buy new cars.

I didn’t feel community when I was growing up. I struggle with it even now. I know that my kids having had stability and connection understand it more than I do. I learn a lot through them. I am comforted knowing that the islanders who watched them grow up can meet their eye with authenticity because we all have been through the same winters. It is this great reminder that is so palpable and welcomed when the summer crowds disperse. The wind takes my breath away but fills the gap with a surety of heart I am grateful to say I cultivated through experiences and grace. 

And that’s life: A beautiful mish mosh of people and events that merge and ricochet in a dance where it seems not everyone remembers the steps. There are many themes that must be reckoned at various points in a life. I take stock of the ways this town and island have directed my life and that of my children. Pitfalls and mountains, we stay. We live. We might even be close to thriving. 

So unlike the impatient wind that will not cease today, I am hunkering in with another ball of yarn to mull my way through a short winter afternoon. I am open to the time and space winter provides to see the diamonds from the rough. It’s the kind of sparkle that bounces across wavetops in summer but is held in the fierce glint of ice. It’s the light at the end of the Solstice tunnel. Everyone I know barrels towards that with an animalistic instinct. We squeeze through that needle’s eye and winter tells us what we’re made of for another year.