I went to college in Detroit which was a far cry from my home in Albuquerque, New Mexico. One winter we had snow on the ground from early November to late April. Winter was cruel with snow and bitter winds. The Thanksgiving snowstorm brought 23 inches alone. No matter the weather, I took a walk every day. I would bundle up in a thick, black, wool overcoat and trudge through the snow. Between college and the death of my sister the landscape matched my mood: crusty snow and little hope.
One day I noticed the snow had some odd, small, upheavals. I did not know what made them, but they were different from the deer, fox, and bird prints. What was pushing up the snow? Wayward Moles? After a few days, tender green sprouts appeared in the snow cracks. Something was happening in this frozen waste. As I watched this curious event unfold, my mood began to lift. To my complete amazement buds began to form and then open. Delicate flowers were proclaiming a distant spring, announcing the reign of snow was beginning to melt, testifying that the cycle of life continued. I experienced the miracle of the crocus and the easing of grief. There was hope.