My fear of falling is surpassed in my life only by my fear of stagnation. For all of my adult life I have wandered, unable to take root in one place for too long, even when I have tried to do so. Perhaps my failure to synthesize permanence has been the expression of some latent, subconscious desire to avoid the imprisonments of circumstance. But regardless of any and all efforts, there have been portions of my years, bricks laid heavy as the seasons, during which I have found myself feeling immobilized behind the walls of time.
Winter hangs like a shroud over the days, even beneath the persistent sun of the Front Range. The brightness of morning is belied by the chill of the air, and it is all one can do not to stay indoors, not to seek some simulacrum of warmth through a windowed lens. And yet we burdened by cold must abandon our swaddling clothes with each dawn, and face nature’s refusal to reason, armed only with layers and the iron conviction that these months will thaw.