So much wonder in the feel of frost-covered grass — the quiet magic that reminds us to slow down and simply be.
I let Apollo off leash again, pitying his pining to play with the neighbor’s dog. Alas, he soon discovered a hole at the bottom of the fence just large enough to slip through. In for a penny, in for a pound—he was off, racing down the street into another neighbor’s yard. I could only shake my head with a smirk and resign myself to follow.
As I walked, I felt the sore muscles throughout my body contract and release. It hurt exquisitely. I love slowing down to really feel these changes—to sense my body becoming stronger and leaner. The muscles along my lower back moved in concert with those in my legs, each one firing with quiet precision. I ran my hand down from the curve of my lower spine, across my glutes and hamstrings, over my quadriceps, and to my inner thighs. When flexed, they felt like tightened bowstrings. The human body truly is a magnificent instrument.
I paused, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath—allowing myself to simply exist. The air was crisp and clean, evoking the memory of camping mornings: unzipping a tent to greet the chill of dawn. The scent of smoke drifted by, teasing me with thoughts of a roaring campfire. Though the sun was warm and the wind still, frost lingered in the shaded corners of trees and rooftops. When Apollo bounded back toward me, I knelt to ruffle the white-coated grass. It was softer than I expected, cool but gentle beneath my fingertips.
In that moment, I felt the quiet magic of winter settle over me. I didn’t need snowdrifts or sleigh bells—this was my own little Winter Wonderland.
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