It is a dissonant day. I slide off my bicycle at the foot of our driveway, the last, steepest mountain to ascend before reaching home. My heart pounds insistently in the base of my throat, and I unzip the top of my rain jacket so the chilly air cools my sweaty neck.
I always walk my bike up the driveway, usually slowly, a chance to relax and take in the day before going inside again. Today, as I start the climb, tiny dots of snow begin to swirl, confused missives whirling in every direction, though the biting wind has lessened. Far above, wispy thin white clouds give way to pockets of powder-blue sky, glimpses of fair weather while massive grey storm clouds loom imperviously. And here I am, far below, small. Is it strange that I feel the most comfortable in my own life when it is placed in a context of incomprehensible vastness?
There aren't a lot of wonderful things about biking in the winter, but this is one of the moments that is worth it: a perspective that reminds me of my own insignificance in the best sense, something I never get from driving my car.
Our lawn sports a track of bicycle wheels through the snow from our front door to the shed, and I think about the many creatures that make their homes under the snow. Today is a reminder to choose a good life, to be alive before I die, and yet also to remember: I am only one of millions upon millions of creatures to carve out their little homes in the snow.
