Last "spring" (April in Minnesota), I scrolled through my Instagram feed with frustration and jealousy. Flowers, patios, iced coffees! People on the east coast were baring their shoulders and eating salads outside while I sat under a blanket, watching the snow fall outside.
And now "autumn" is upon Minneapolis (I use quotations again because those two in-between seasons are a little iffy up there), and friends are wrapping themselves in scarves and sipping on warm, pumpkin-flavored beverages. And once again I'm jealous, this time as I force a pair of jeans into the mid-80 degree North Carolina afternoon.
I lived in Minnesota for one winter--not long enough for it to become my new normal, but I let it in and felt it down deep and somehow it became a part of me, like I was supposed to be there; or like perhaps that winter had been within me all along.
I may not know what it's like to be there year after year as the snow piles up, feeling it in your bones and wearing on you. I have never hunted down the best patios all spring and summer or, in late August, exchanged groans and anxious faces, greeting people on the street like Game of Thrones characters--"winter is coming."
But I loved it there and felt at home-- loved the way the snow seemed to fall more often than not, loved the way you just dig in and deal with it, bringing your gloves with you everywhere and driving a little bit more slowly across icy roads. And yet here I am, settling in down south on a warm September day, daydreaming about fall and winter and sweaters and hot tea; laughing as I unpack our heavy winter coats and hoping to soon wake up to a hazy chill and that smell of leaves. Wondering where I belong, and already missing that impending northern snow.