A Winter's Tale

The weathercaster spiritualists with their end of the world, do or dire predictions and their hovered over, proprietary crystal snow balls, had it wrong for most places.

The angry, foaming at the mouth shadow world wildebeest that they said would surely come, snapping and snarling from the darkest bowels of the fairy tale forest, was not, ultimately, what arrived on the unwelcome mats of our battened down doors.

What came instead were the heroes of nature, invisible warrior women mostly, probably mothers all, who came, not armed with shields or weapons, but rather with comforters made of steady drifts and rose petals in their wake accompanied by the triumphant and steady marching music of a welcoming wind that burst forth from the soul of their chests, a once upon a time, distant lullaby that had one simple one single lyric.

The word "surrender."

And we knew, instantly, that this was not the World War II, ceremonial, broken sword across the knee kind of surrender, but rather, it was a hand delivered, door to door, in the language and cadence that only the heart could understand, good kind of surrender; the kind of surrender that lovers experience at first sight and Billy Joel once sang and Long Island swooned about.

And suddenly, what previously seemed a most assured and inevitable defeat became in an instant, a celebration of the season.

Of the moment.

It was an imperial victory, a roman parade, that spread the news both near and far, a clarion call, that we we all safe and protected.

For now.

For today.

For as far as forever could see.

Quiet was the messiah who finally came.

And just like that we felt as warm as the cherished tea cups that we held close to our chests.

And just like that, the imminent threat; the well trained, ice wielding blizzard terrorists instantly transformed, like birthday party magic, into a traveling troupe of white fairy performers who pranced and danced outside our windows drunk on the heady brisk spirit of spontaneous joy.

And just like that, the soundtrack of the afternoon became the symphonic sound of children under the direction of all the as yet to be born embryos of the womb world who knew better than us, were smarter than us all along simply because they knew by cellular instinct, to trust and fully embrace all the many delights of the unknown.

And just like that, everything tasted sweet. Blankets seemed to come with extra warmth built in. Televisions murmured like the prayers of the devout, a fitting background for this gift from God.

We were not quite born again and we were not quite hibernating.

We were reminded of the elegance of stillness, occasionally punctuated by the glee bark of a tail wagging faraway dog who cannot wait to play with whoever is in the distance.