I heard that phrase once, and it seems appropriate now. We are experiencing our 64th day of snow in the last 92 days (or something like that). The temperatures remain in the -30s and two feet of snow obscure my garden. The wind nibbles at my house, at my face, at my sanity. I've worn completely through my woolly gloves. My lips are chapped from rubbing against my own frozen breath on my scarf. I despair of spring ever coming. I don't mind snow, but six months of it is hard.
So if I can't beat it, I have to find a way to embrace it. I checked Farley Mowat's High Latitudes out of the library to read about the Arctic. I took Brio out for a long romp in the snow. At work they encouraged us to find conferences to attend, and I found one that appeals to me in Anchorage, Alaska. I'm looking at real estate in Fort Frances. I'm thinking of trying snowshoeing.
Will a change of attitude lift me out of the doldrums? I don't know. But chewing on the windowsill waiting for the weather to break is not helpful. I have to try something.
On a brighter note, the orchid I rescued from the garbage over a year ago is blooming, seven stunning waxy white blossoms like round-winged moths, delicate and graceful. A sign of life, of hope, on my frigid windowsill.