I yanked open the basement door, and was met with the sharp sweet smell of air, a taste of freezing, tingling nostrils that brings me back to Beechfield, Billinge End Road, Lancashire. To university mornings in Leeds, that first winter at the age of 19 where I thought I was losing my mind because the days were ending at 4pm. The darkness that reshaped my interior world and made me light candles and sit in my student flat and get insanely artistic and write angst songs about how the world was falling away. The only time frost came to Hong Kong was a freakish morning when the temperatures inexplicably plummeted and hundreds of Hongkonger families hastened to the top of Tai Mo Shan at 4am to take photos of their kids lying in white Earth.
But here in Maine, there are no freakish elements to this morning. It's part of a cycle I am slowing starting to recognize. It is teaching me the folds of impermanence. How could we ever believe that things are permanent, when the world is constantly reshaping itself, when the animals are on the move, and just at the point where you think life has been the same for a while, it pulls out from under your toes. And changes completely.
Photo: Frost on the Window, by Thunk