Our first Christmas here in the Boston burbs was a white Christmas. My very first. It was lovely. After the semi-controlled frenzy of present opening in the morning, we headed out to test our new snowshoes and sleds at a nearby golf course.
The snow on the main sledding hill was pretty worn down, but there was enough snow on a smaller hill to be fun for my sledding novices. They swooped down and clambered up over and over and over, cheeks rosy with cold, faces beaming. My husband, who has edged reluctantly into his forties, flew down the little hill like a child.
And I've discovered something wonderful. Snowshoeing. The rhythmic crunch in the cold hush, the smooth movement. I've missed running so much since my knee surgery. Running used to be my meditation, my heartbeat my mantra. This is the closest that I've come to that feeling of peace. And as a low-impact, no-torque activity, it's perfect for my crummy knees.
And after all of the snowshoeing and sledding and tramping about, the afternoon ended appropriately with a snowball fight. A snowball fight in which we demonstrated why none of us would ever make it to the major leagues. Heck...the minors...or even a competitive Little League team. But despite (or maybe because of) our incredibly terrible aim, it was fun all the same.
Merry Christmas and happy holidays!
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