The pedals go round and round

I walked outside to feel the snow on my face. 

I had been working hard all day, pouring over volumes of methodologies for comparative political and social research. I needed a break and had laundry to do - my laundry facilities are in a basement I must walk around the building to reach - so it seemed a logical time to set down the book, take off my reading glasses, and trundle outside.

It had been snowing for several hours. I stepped outside and, within seconds, the cold pierced my sweatshirt and struck my core. Winter in the midwest takes no prisoners. A slight breeze tousled my hair and sent the snowflakes careening on a slanted path. The snow crunched underfoot as I began to make my way towards the back of my building. I have yet to experience a sound as distinctive as snow collapsing and congealing underfoot and it always captures my attention. Walking through the sheltered passageway between my house and another, pellets of rock salt skittered across the icy sidewalk. If I glanced skyward, I would have seen formidable icicles reaching down like stalactites. This passageway, it always feels like a cave in winter months.

After performing the requisite tasks in the basement, I climbed the stairs - which bore tiny white piles of snow from the trek downwards - and braced myself for another shock from the cold. As I neared the front porch, eager for the warmth of my apartment and the coffee sitting on my desk, I stopped. I wanted to feel the snowflakes hit my face and begin to melt, creating the sensation of minute icy pricks on my skin. After a car passed and quiet returned, I could hear the distinct hissing of falling snow. With particles so small and virtually weightless, it is surprising there can be any noise at all. Yet, the accumulation of icy particles emits a sound reminiscent of static. Perhaps it is no coincidence this is often termed white noise.

Back at my desk, I realize the chore of laundry was merely a means to an end. I walked outside to feel the snow on my face.

Winter afternoons

I can hear the kettle boiling over from my office, so I rise eagerly from my chair and follow a familiar path to the kitchen. Open cabinet, grab honey, pick up a mug from the drying rack by the sink. A dollop of honey goes into the bottom of the mug and begins to spread out, stopping only at the edge of the translucent paper shielding my tea leaves. As water pours into the mug it instantly begins to turn a golden amber; the soft scent of the tea follows the wafting steam and finds my nose. It tingles a bit.

Back in my office, I gaze out the window and it has begun to snow again. The wind swirls around the edges of my building, picking up the snowflakes and sending them waltzing around the air before the find their way to the earth. Pipes creak and pop as they carry hot water around the house, almost echoing the percussion lines Max Roach is laying down behind Clifford Brown’s muted trumpet.

Moment of reflection over, it is time to read again. I may be looking down at book pages now, but the last few minutes will continue to linger in my senses for some time yet.