It's Getting Better All the Time

The signs are growing unmistakeable. There's light through the windows of my office earlier in the morning. I don't have to turn on the light in the mud room when I take out the dog the first time.

When I quit working for the day, generally between 5 and 5:30, there's still sunlight coming in the front windows of the house.

Outside when we shovel, we don't have to wear three layers of clothing. Two will do.

The beavers living in the river stir in their sleep then head out to find a midwinter snack. We see the trails they leave behind in the snow on the riverbanks.

If you park just right, the inside of your car will be warm when you get out of the store.

According to the Farmer's Almanac, we add a few minutes of daylight every twenty-four hours from December 23 onward until the summer solstice. But we don't really notice the accumulation of those minutes until this time of the year when suddenly—and it always seems sudden—we realize the deep gloom is lifting.

You can watch the edges of snowbanks retreat when the sun is out. To me, that retreating posture—which is uneven—leaves behind crystalline hands that seem to plead for a return to darkness.

But we're not headed that way and in the midst of our snow shoveling fatigue, our hearts stir.