WINTER IS WINTER unless of course it is not wintry. Then it is something else, something muddy brown, dreary, and derelict of hope. Since the January freeze went up in thaw, and the skiing with it, I’ve been waiting for winter’s return. It came back yesterday, with a heavy wet snow that fell under a temperature of about -1 degrees Celsius. There was fun to be had, and we attempted a snowman, though our neighbors bested us with an upside down figure with a soot-black mouth and eyes and buttons leading upward, feet in the air. Our snowman has since collapsed with some melt; it looks as if he’s just been shot.
I am vaguely aware of current news but I do not find myself drawn into it. Sports, politics, unsettled and dissatisfied people. It seems that the more people engage the public sphere, the more dissatisfied they become. Hence I find refuge in solitary undertakings. Or the pleasantries of home life. I went skiing today, but the snow was just not right. It was too warm, it gave way too easily. When the pole planted, it often sank into the slush. But a deeper freeze is promised for the remainder of the week. By February end, my ski dreams may still be realized. They may not have to change the Tartu Marathon route either.