When I first moved North it was to Seagull Lake, near enough that you could paddle and portage to Canada.
The first winter was hard, and when spring came and the sun was hot again on a still day, I took a sleeping bag down to the wide, gravel canoe dock, where ice still clustered like watery wind chimes, and I mummified myself at the edge of the lake. (I didn’t wake until a man with a name like Johnny Appleseed put a canoe in the water to paddle over to the island, and even then, it was still a sort of dream).
Today I laid a folded blanket down in the sunny, sheltered corner of the deck. Notebook, tarot cards, pillow, I set up camp. The temperature might have crept above zero officially, but the wind was gentle and blocked by the house. The lake sloshed softly over ice covered rocks, and no matter the season, open water transports me to summer.
I read, I wrote, I slept, hat pulled down and blanket pulled up, sun bright on my eyelids, body like a bulb believing that spring will come, long before my mind can manage to.
We’re all waiting for Godot, and someday, whenever Soon may be, we’ll realize he was here all along, hidden beneath the snow.