​But until then, they wait, as we all do while we trudge
and shovel
and push
and plow.

But until then, they sleep, as we plan
and dream
and seed
and feed the fire.

Even the soil waits under the water, held warm by it's loft.
Not sleeping but moving slowly, feasting on the fallen bits from last summer.

​The light and heat of summer is fed by the cold water of winter.

The chores that are mandated by the cold, chopping firewood, feeding the fire, clearing paths and cars and roofs and feeders and fences and walkways no longer feel like a 'want to do' but a 'have to do'. Defrosting windshields, putting on layers (and are they the right layers for our changeable weather?), and the bother of driving on icy, wet, snowy roads all lead to the feeling of being stuck.

​​Stuck in place and stuck in time.

​It's easy to keep to our well worn paths, those paths that we shovel, snowblow, or plow to clear. With every shovel thrown to clear the paths around the farm, I also end up building the edges higher. The clearer I make the path, the more bound into that shape, layout, roadways I become. Unless I want to mount up and break trail, sometimes falling through, sometimes balancing atop a snowpack that I may be unsure of (essentially thin ice over snow cone crystals), I must stay on the easy path.

​And was that path easy? It took work before to make it easy now. Hours spent shoveling after every snowfall. Hours that my shoulders feel, my back feels, my knees feel. So that now I can walk easy.
Making sure I got out to tidy the path when the rain comes to soften and slump the snow, especially before it refreezes overnight into chunks of ice. Convincing myself to leave the warm comfort of my couch or computer chair when all I want to do is stay inside and not have to put on layers of jackets, hats, gloves, and boots for the weather (sometimes cold, sometimes wet) because I know it will be oh so harder once it refreezes.

​For when I took a moment to set aside my notions of success, my assumptions, and my best laid plans, I saw other roads, other paths. Some are weedier and more overgrown than others. Some are fresh and new, if less traveled. And some are ancient, forgotten paths that are so worn into the body of the earth that we sometimes walk on them without even knowing. 
These are the paths that lead into both the internal and external wilderness. That place in our soul that wants to howl at the moon, speak the language of trees, and wander with wonder.
This is the time of year I use that feeling of stuckness, of being too comfortable on the easy path as a push to break free from old habits and past assumptions, and journey into the wilderness.
It's when I find the middle road.