Every year about this time, or sometimes a bit later, the snow begins to fall. I notice it early; the leaves have left the trees and fallen, littering the streets and sidewalks with their poetic crunch as each step along the miles is taken. The air gets colder, crisper really, and the clouds drop low, sometimes bringing fog and low visibility. I've been around it enough, especially living in the Dakotas through college, that I've learned to read the signs. So well in fact, that there are certain traditions I have come to conjure along the way.
And so yesterday, on the first snow of the season here in Spokane. I went outside and ran in it.
I've been sick for two weeks. I've been coughing so hard I pulled my right hip flexor. I've been laying in bed writing a novel (yup, watch out world!), and just sitting there.
But yesterday, I woke up, slightly invigorated, a little unnerved, and with a smile on my face I laced up my shoes that have been sitting in the corner waiting patiently.
Every year about this time, and sometimes a little bit later, I go for a run. I run along listening to the new sound of the crunch and flip that the snow makes beneath my rubber soles. I try to keep upright and realize how badly I need to work on my core. I listen to the silence of the morning, and the slight fwip sound the trees make as the snowflakes gracefully float through their limbs and onto my own. I let the snow collect on my clothes until the dark colors of my tights are nearly white and reborn.
Then I come back to my house and strip away the damp clothes and take the first real hot shower of the season, followed by tea and breakfast.
It never has really mattered how long I go, but I go. No matter where I'm at.
This time of year, I have many traditions. It's been a nice constant. Maybe this year I'll create some more.
How about you? Any traditions?
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