Thankful for Another Spin

I sat at the kitchen table, my steaming cup of coffee now lukewarm, repeating the phrase to myself. It was so simple, so honest. And beautifully profound.

Never underestimate the wisdom of your children. Even though they lack life experience, that very innocence can be the key to a certain clarity, something that becomes clouded as we collect the scar tissue of adulthood.

I became a dad for the first time almost 16 years ago. My daughter was a dribbly, snotty-nosed miracle who changed my life forever. Three years later, her burbling, bubbling little brother made me the proudest pop in Minnesota.

Being a parent to youngsters was like traveling back in a time machine. All of life's marvels, long invisible as an adult, became strikingly clear again, especially during winter time. The thrill of learning to ice skate or the giddiness of tumbling ass-over-teakettle in a carpet of white powder brought almost too much happiness to bear. There was nothing like the joy of a winter wonderland.

It was a joy I had long forgotten.

Which brings me to the kitchen table. 

I poured myself a coffee and sat next to my son, who was gulping down a mug of hot chocolate. The afternoon November sky was getting tired as we watched the first snow of the year collect on the backyard lawn: green succumbing to white. 

I had to work early the next morning and I was not looking forward to negotiating slick roads. As I grumbled about the accumulating mess outside, my 12 year old philosopher offered invaluable insight.  

"Well, here we go again," I said with a sigh. Another miserable winter. Skin-numbing cold, wet socks and cars that won't start. 

"I'm kind of glad it's snowing," said my son, wiping off his chocolate moustache.

"Why?" I asked.

He thought for a moment. "Because I haven't seen it in a while."

That simple, poignant phrase froze my thoughts. 

Because I haven't seen it in a while. 

When we become adults, we make a tragic metamorphosis. We become anxiety-ridden worry machines. We worry about money. We worry about bills. We worry about jobs. We worry about things we can't control. We worry about things we can control. Hell, we even worry that we worry too much.

Being an adult is serious business.

The longer I sat at my kitchen table, as the snow continued to flutter down, the more I realized my son had unwittingly exposed a wonderful truth. 

There really is something about the change of seasons that is truly welcoming. Transitioning from one season to the next gives us a sense of renewal; we can't embrace the rebirth of spring without first burying the dead, frozen bones of winter. That forward momentum not only gives us hope, it allows us to leave the past where it belongs. 

This ride we are all on--this orbit around the sun--navigates us through life. It is fluid, rotating, ever-changing, yet remains comfortably familiar. This grand ellipse is all we have. Rather than gripe about another winter, we should be thankful for another spin.

As I had that little chat with my son, I, too, became 12 years old again. I vividly remember, as a boy, waking up one morning to a fresh blanket of snow on the ground. And yes, I also remember being euphoric over nature's beautiful transformation. And now I know why. 

Because I hadn't seen it in a while.