April Snowstorms

Supposed to be "April Showers," I know. I have a general rule that I will not shovel snow in April, because it is not my problem. It shouldn't be there. "God put it there, let Him clean it up." And it always worked, a skiff or maybe an inch of snow, melted away by late afternoon.

Not three inches of snow followed by near-freezing temps all week. And the snowblower out of gas. So there I was in the predawn dark, shoveling. And you know what? I liked it. Quiet, still, manageable. Reminded me of a slogan I see on the wall at the local Y, "Every Day is a Gift." And the older I get, the more I agree. Not that every day is fun or even easily tolerable, but every day is something to be treasured. Because we only get so many. No matter how much we want to stay around, no matter how hard we try to "do right," no matter what we do, we are on a one-way road to an unknown destination. This will all be taken from us, like it or not.

I sometimes envy people who deeply believe they know what the future will be, what lies on the other side of the veil. I'd like to be sure, too, but I cannot. Too skeptical perhaps of conflating desire, dream, and destiny. My father, I know, had a fascination with what lies beyond, and if he could reach out and share the answer with me, I believe he would. But he has not. Or at least I have not heard him. Which of course means absolutely zilch. What is or is not, is or is not, and what I think means nothing.

What I know is that I am here, my lovebird sitting on my shoulder as I type, the sun shining and reflecting off a beautiful sheen of snow that sparkles like diamonds. It's all good, even when I don't like it, because it's here. And won't always be. At least for me. So I should and shall appreciate it. I will go out back and shovel a path to the birdfeeders and fill them, because the birds are there, snow or not, and they appreciate the food. It's something of value that I can do.

It's all a gift.