The air is sharp and tastes of tawny metal as it forces its way through my nose and down deep in my lungs. I grasp at the fur lining of my hood one more time as the ice lifts off the fields and collides with my cheeks. One fist pumps as my mitten covered hand secures the rope that pulls the sled behind me. Trudging through the shin deep snow is always more fun on the way there when the sled is light, but my socks feel the brunt of carving a path through new snow as a trickle of icy wetness settles under my toes. The bottom of the hill always has a deeper drift. I make a mental note, next year taller boots. My mind shifts, and I take in the sparkle of the light dancing off ice crystals. I marvel at the resilience of the chickens who seem to be happily clearing their own space free of the cold white stuff.
Any twinge of uncomfortable chill can be easily remedied with simple acts of gratitude. It’s become a certain type of therapy this winter. A cold morning and a good dose of wonder. I reach the barn and stack the wood. I pull the sled and feel my heartbeat warm in my ears, the sweat building under the layers. It’s a repetitive process that requires a handful of trips back and forth, up the hill, to the house.
But every time I add to the stack, I think of the ancestors who had no wool and synthetic fibers. I think of the connection we form when we use our own hands to create our heat, depend on our own resources, and steward our own land to continue to provide. I often wonder after I’ve shed the boots and curl up in front of the fire with the dog, do people know they were tricked into living a way that is sold as easier, but is anything but. We laugh as people gawk at how much “work” our days must be. But this is what we call easy. Simple. We don’t need more free time to do what we are already so whole heartedly doing. And that’s living. Because living fully isn’t hard when your connected to everything around you.