We’ve all heard the cliches. We know we need to make lemonade when life hands us lemons. With enough pressure, we transform from lumps of coal into brilliant diamonds. Yeah. Those well-meaning, feel-good images are supposed to help change our perspective and encourage a calm, peaceful search for a silver lining. But sometimes they annoy me, and I  want to scream until my voice cracks, beat my fist on my desk, or hurl a brick against the wall. Often, THAT improves my outlook. Why should we pretend nothing is wrong when it clearly is? I say, throw a temper-tantrum, cry, howl, yell, and express your outrage. Experience your bubbling molten lava anger and then get busy.

Embrace the obstacle, face your issues, introduce yourself to your nemesis, and get to know them. What makes them tick, what rules run their world, and what puts them into opposition with you? I am not suggesting that you wallow in your suffering, push the blame onto others, or expect someone else to save the day. To triumph over a situation, you must accept it, understand how you got there and where to go next. How do you solve the problem? Once I’m annoyed, I must fix the issue and ensure I never travel that road again.

Powerful magic dwells there. We can endure great pain, beat horrendous obstacles, and live to tell the tale to the awe-struck masses. Google is full of miracle, one-off stories of survival, and yes, they are inspiring. But surviving the event is not the end of the story. For me, it is only the beginning. A much more fascinating adventure happens after you withstand the onslaught. Did you emerge changed? Transformed? Wiser? Kinder? Did your endurance test fill you with an essence so powerful, everyone you meet feels it?

What challenge has forever changed you?

_________________________________________

Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

The supply chain is broken. The supplies to tackle the snowdrift above my front door and my icy steps are in limbo. An email notification informed me neither my ice-melt nor my roof rake would arrive as promised. The roof rake is out of stock, with no projected delivery day, so I canceled the order. I doubt I will have a use for it in June. There is a back-order on the ice-melt, with expected arrival on the 17th. The extended forecast calls for snow on eight of the next fourteen days, with temperatures never breaking freezing. Yep, I might still need to thaw some ice. I checked availability and shipment dates for flame throwers, just in case.

The dusting of snow also did not arrive as expected. I thought I had dodged a bullet, but as I was contemplating Plan B, the lead-gray clouds puked, perfect special snowflakes all over my clean driveway. Ugh. So, back to Plan B. Step One -I need mood music. I turn the volume to rafter-shaking and cue the “Rocky” Soundtrack. I move to the next phase, where I shovel snow in my house slippers after removing the second-floor window above the porch. It is a double-hung Cottage Window that removes easily for cleaning. The area outside is a 3 x 3 section, and I can reach the entire space without leaning out too far.

I attack the 2 ft tall pile and push layers of snow over the brink. Something moves on the street below. It’s Mrs. Nosy Butt-Insky from the next block, out for her daily reconnaissance mission, code name, W.A.L.K. I pretend I don’t see her. She stops, waves, and when I don’t respond, she yells, “What are you doing?” A thousand retorts line up, ready to pepper spray her with any answer but the obvious. I need time to censor my thoughts, so I place my hand to my ear and shout, “What?”

She moves closer, cups her mittened hands around her mouth.

“I said, what are you doing?”

“Eye of the Tiger” is blasting, but I don’t turn it down. I push everything I could say from my mind like I push icy, snowy chunks over the edge to explode on the steps and sidewalk.

“I’m shoveling snow.”

Her hands fall to her side, she blinks and shuffles her feet. I can hear the gears working in her head. They are louder than my music, and I silently wish for her shuffling boots to carry her down the street. No such luck. She cups her mouth again and yells, “Why?”

“It’s blocking my view.”

I couldn’t help it the words escaped into the frigid air before I knew what I was saying.

She turned, looking at the house behind her, then back at me.

“Your view of what?”

“Don’t stay out too long. Frostbite is nasty.” I wave and send another clump flying.

“Living In America” echoes between the houses as I finish my job.

How do you explain the obvious?

_________________________________________

Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

Speaking of the Forecast, I severed all further communications. The latest love note informed me I should expect to wake to a light dusting of snow Wednesday, 1-3 inches Thursday afternoon, and 4-8 inches Friday night into Saturday morning. High temperatures through the weekend will hover between 10 and 15 degrees. Winter, our relationship is officially over.

I woke dreading the task ahead of me. What I put off yesterday, I must deal with today. I donned my Sasquatch Suit and hit the button to open the garage door. It lifted three feet and stopped. The opener has a rebellious streak, and when it gets too cold, she refuses to raise the door without assistance. That means me lifting while the motor is engaged. I can’t accomplish this feat from the inside since it’s impossible to hit start, negotiate the crowded path, and lift before everything stops. The logistics only work from the keypad located outside. Several minutes later, after trudging through the white powder, a false start, a reset, and uttering the magical curse words, the portal opened, and I victoriously grasp the salvation shovel. There was music, the clouds parted, sunbeams glinted off the clear plastic scoop, and tears formed in my eyes. Or maybe that was the wind blowing snow in my face.

The actual shoveling portion of the show was uneventful until I got to the front porch. Ice encased the two steps. As I chiseled with the back of my blade, a frigid droplet targeted the only centimeter of exposed skin, landed on my neck, and trickled down my spine. Hello Momma. Attached to the gutters, evil icicle stalactites lurked, biding their time, planning the perfect moment to let go, come crashing downward intending to inflict bodily harm. Not on my watch.

I waved the shovel over my head and connected with nothing but air. I stepped on the first riser, swung again, and on this attempt, I shattered the crystal demons. But now I had another problem. A snowdrift curled over the gutter. It was a potential avalanche. I saw their diabolical plan. First, the frozen water daggers would take me down while the snow buried me alive. When spring arrived, and they found my body, the killers would get away scot-free. I raised Salvation Shovel, and like Excalibur, he sliced thru my attackers. Dead snowflakes coated my hat, face, arms, and I sputtered but won the day. My neighbors must think I’m crazy.

Wait until tomorrow when the roof rake and ice-melt arrive, and I take my game up a level.

Are you playing in the snow?

_________________________________________

Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

I’m uncertain if it is artic weather, lockdowns, or my natural aversion to going places where I might need to interact with strangers. This weekend marked a change, and I found my rhythm. Some items which have languished on my To-do list have reached completion status. Nobody was more excited than I was to cross them off, mark them done, and say, “Goodbye forever.” Other assignments are inching forward. Some require me to push massive granite boulders up a steep incline, while others, I am convinced, are stubbornly immovable objects. Then there are the spooky, self-possessed tasks that mimic the mysterious Sailing Stones of Death Valley’s Racetrack Playa. Given the rare, precise conditions of ice, water, and wind, those jobs complete themselves.

Later, there will be an opportunity to ascertain the planetary alignment, contemplate the forces creating the perfect storm, and analyze my wonky perspective. For now, it must wait. My focus is not upset a balance I don’t fully understand. I strive to go with the flow, nudge, entourage, and witness serendipity in action. My head is bruised and bumpy from banging it against the proverbial brick wall, I nurse sore muscles from heavy lifting, and bandage scrapes from falling too many times to count. I am praying for the extended play version of the Matrix Effect when time slows down while everything happens in a flash. I keep stoking the fire, piling task after task onto the pyre, hoping against hope that I can clear as much backlog as possible while this phenomenon lasts.

Do you accomplish more when it’s cold?

_________________________________________

Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

If you enjoy cold weather poems, here’s another.

Noses are red,
Fingers are blue.
I’m tired of winter,
How about you?

I woke Sunday morning to a balmy -9 with a wind chill of -21 degrees. At least the sun was shining when I ventured outside to shovel the driveway. I waited until it got warmer. My phone reported a whopping 3, but I am always prepared. I have an Icelandic wool coat I keep for these occasions. It is big, bulky, covers me to about mid-thigh, and it has never let me down. Wearing this cream-colored horror is an art.  I have discovered less is more, and  I only wear a long sleeve tee-shirt under it. I opt for sleeves because otherwise, the wooly fabric makes me itch and scratch, and I don’t want to entertain my housebound neighbors. Anything heavier than a tee-shirt, and I overheat. There is even a matching hat to complete my sexy and stylish ensemble. I know because Mr. Abominable said I looked hot.

Looking like an enormous round blob with a Q-Tip head isn’t so bad because I hate shivering. Since nobody can give me a definitive answer whether shivering qualifies as exercise, I err on the side of warmth. Sweating, however, does count.

My friend Maxine says the secret to surviving winter is putting on sufficient layers so that you don’t fit through the door and can’t go outside. I say the problem with staying inside is you have no choice except to interact with the cabin fever crazed lunatics who live there. They make braving treks into the frozen wasteland for extended periods seem like a vacation. Maxine and I both agree on one thing. We might have snow piled five feet high, but we cannot construct a single valid reason to waste valuable Margarita salt on the sidewalk. If the ice gets thick enough, we can chip it into cubes for our drinks.

According to my app, sub-freezing conditions extend into next week. I am ecstatic. I’m eager to try a new cold-weather sport called Extreme Hibernation. They hook up a night vision cam and record grainy black and white video of you sleeping in your den. There is no word yet on the food supply and a free Netflix subscription.

How do you survive winter?

_________________________________________

Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer