Sleepyhead

Winter, you make it so hard to get up in the morning.  You and my warm bed create an alliance that is almost impossible to defeat.  It's also cruel that you've pulled the shower into it as well - that nice, warm, inviting shower.  Not only does that shower throw me back out into the cold air, but you freeze the floor which freezes my feet - whistling through the door and the windows and attacking my face and hands when I walk out the door to find my car held hostage by your elements.

Robert Louis Stevenson wrote a little about Winter, too, back in 1885 - when I imagine it felt even darker and colder, as people relied on candlelight and horses to get around.  Being Scottish, he knew harsh winters. I have experienced that bone-chilling cold over there - where my pants actually froze to the puddle I was standing in.  Here is his portrayal of the loveliest of seasons:

Winter-Time

A Child's Garden of Verses, 1885

Robert Louis Stevenson

Late lies the wintry sun a-bed,

A frosty, fiery sleepy-head;

Blinks but an hour or two, and then,

A blood-red orange, sets again.

Before the stars have left the skies,

At morning in the dark I rise;

And shivering in my nakedness,

By the cold candle, bathe and dress.

Close by the jolly fire I sit

To warm my frozen bones a bit;

Or with a reindeer-sled, explore

The colder countries round the door.

Black are my steps on silver sod;

Thick blows my frosty breath abroad;

And tree and house, and hill and lake,

Are frosted like a wedding cake.

Stories can save us from our own downward-spiral existential woe-is-me thinking.  As unique as experiences can feel, we can also hear from others - resonate and find empathy and understanding. What a gift writing, sharing and stories can be to help us get out of bed in the morning.