She was sorry, she said, that I lived where I did, and that winter would soon freeze my soul. I said, “Save your false pity. We Northern types thrive in the cold.”
The woman was calling from South Carolina. It was 65 that morning, she reported in bubbly tones. I, on the other hand, had this to report: “We just got four inches of snow.”
She gasped, as if someone had hit her smack dab in the face with a snowball. Brrr, she said. Brrr. She remembered the Northeast. She had spent a few winters in a wind-whipped outpost in northern Pennsylvania before taking a job where the jasmines are always in bloom.
“Poor me,” I lamented, hanging up to ponder my bad luck in having to live where I did. “Winter up here must mean no one can have any fun.”
A few hours later, at the house of a friend, I snooped on a call he received from relatives in Florida. “It is 32 degrees here,” he told them. “We might get some sleet, maybe snow mixed with rain, or perhaps we’ll just get freezing drizzle.”
I could hear their bones creak in the land of the Early Bird Special. It was, they reported, 87 degrees as they spoke. And humid. So humid they were holed up inside for fear parts of them might droop and never bounce back if they dared venture out into nature.
My buddy hung up. Poor us, we decided. Stuck on the tundra. No humidity. No mosquitoes to spear us. No highways, gas stations and restaurants clogged with sun lovers by the traffic-jammed thousands. Just hills and the snow and a need to enjoy them. Lots of space. Lots of clean air to breathe.
Let me count the ways I am not suffering.
I don’t seem to suffer when I ski through the snow, sliding smoothly along the ravine edge, admiring hemlocks. Gray sky muffles brightness, keeps the needles dark green. Snow melt has wet the tree trunks almost black.
They contrast with white slopes around them. Below, the stream gurgles. Thick mist hangs above it, fed by steep snowy banks on both sides. The sound of this stream floats as lightly as dust on the wind.
I don’t seem to be suffering standing outside after sunset, watching Venus and Jupiter burn through deepening blue, hearing great horned owls talk to each other. Muted owl messages sift through white pines. Who-who-who? asks an owl. Me-me-me a mate answers. Great horned owls like to court in cold weather.
Maybe I’m suffering, and I just don’t know it, when I watch a six-point buck run through the woods, antlers sharpened, senses keen.
Maybe I’m depressed, but can’t feel it, when I call and five chickadees race to convene in the apple tree under which I am standing.
Perhaps I am totally dejected (but unaware of my condition), when a chunk of red maple goes pop! as the splitting maul strikes it. Maybe, while admiring its smooth-grained heartwood, smelling its sweetness and realizing this renewable resource will warm my feet on a cozy evening in the near future, I am depressed by the whole lousy thing.
If that is depression, let the doldrums continue. Let me wallow in similar mire for the rest of my days. Bring on the changes of new seasons coming. Keep going outdoors and your spirits will fly. It is cheap. It is healthy. It is always inspiring. Does that sound depressing to you?
Naturalist Rick Marsi, a member of the Susquehanna Group, is a journalist, public speaker and leader of eco-tours. His book of favorite nature columns is Wheel of Seasons, available at www.rickmarsi.com. ©2012 Rick Marsi