The New England winter weather is beautiful, if in a haunting, dark sort of way. It’s gray and bitter cold, but the snowflakes float amongst the pines as if they were suspended in air, as if they were coaxing the kinks out of winter’s melancholy, its’ “funk.” There’s a certain nostalgia that accompanies this weather. Being Connecticut-born and raised, and unquestionably introverted, I sometimes feel gratitude for the cold and the gray. It means that I have a reason to stay in my home, bundled up in flannel or cozied next to my love, glazed over in front of a blazing fire. It means less social events, less coming out of my shell, and more introspection and solitude. It means cravings for spicy, piping hot Pho, or contentedly sipping herbal tea and journaling feverishly.
By March, as the story goes, my tune will change drastically, and I’ll threaten my fiancé that I’m moving down South, to get away from the cold and this “depressing weather”. But, this is my home. I don’t know if I could ever actually leave this way of life. Sure, the people can be rude and closed-off, the cost of living is outrageous, and we as a state unfortunately take very little pride in Connecticut. But mostly, I think we’re misunderstood. And so is Winter, for that matter. There is beauty to be found everywhere, if you’re willing to look for it.