Refined by winter

For most of my life, I resist winter.

Not casually dislike — resist.

I am a sun, sand, and surf woman. Give me salt air, warm beaches, long coastal walks, and July nights at SPAC — music drifting through warm air, bare arms under the stars.

That’s my rhythm.

Leo Sun. Leo Rising. Fire at the core.

Winter feels like the opposite of me.

Cold. Dark. Constricting.

But this year, I stop resisting.

The Road to Speculator

A road trip north into the mountains — to Speculator, snowmobiling country — becomes the first crack in my old story.

The trees are coated in ice, standing like frozen figures, sculpted and shimmering. The forest feels like a quiet gallery of glass.

It isn’t loud beauty.

It’s steady. Rugged. Unapologetically winter.

Watching those branches catch the light, something in me softens.

Maybe winter isn’t barren.

Maybe I just haven’t been looking closely enough.

Rucking Into the Sun

My resistance really begins to disintegrate on a frigid day when I decide — almost defiantly — to ruck at SPAC.

Yes. The same SPAC I associate with July concerts and bare arms under the stars.

Now it’s snow-covered. Quiet. Almost unrecognizable.

I strap on my weighted vest and walk.

Snow underfoot. Sun overhead.

The air is sharp. My breath visible. The cold is real.

But so is the sun.

As I move, I feel warmth on my face. Not enough to cancel the cold, but enough to remind me who I am.

The sun doesn’t disappear in winter.

Neither do I.

There’s something powerful about carrying weight through snow — boots crunching, shoulders steady, no distractions. Just me and the elements.

Winter doesn’t defeat me.

I move through it.

And I feel my resistance loosening with every step.

Back on Skis — Under the February Full Moon

Cross-country skiing with my sister Joani at Brookhaven — on the February Full Moon — is my next return.

I haven’t skied in years.

And yes, I fall.

More than once.

It’s not dramatic — just slow-motion, slightly awkward, “well… here we are” kind of falling. Skis tangled. Poles crossed. Snow in my gloves.

Getting back up? That’s the real workout.

We laugh — the kind that fogs up cold air and turns frustration into connection.

At one point, we take a wrong turn and end up slightly off course. We pause, look at each other, and figure it out.

And maybe that’s what sisters do — they let you wobble and remind you that you still belong on the trail.

We come off the trails at dusk.

The sky turns pink. The moon rises behind us.

Pink sky ahead.
Moonlight behind.

I stand there feeling surrounded by beauty — and gratitude.

That night, I buy skis.

Not because I’m graceful.

Because I’m willing.

Snowmobiling After 15 Years

Then comes snowmobiling — after a 15-year hiatus — on trails I’ve never ridden before.

And when I say cold, I mean wind chill of -20.

The kind of cold that cuts through everything — sharp, biting, real.

And somehow… beyond exhilarating.

It’s a new machine. It handles differently. It responds differently. I’m not pretending I remember everything.

And honestly?

Part of it is proving something to myself — that I still have it.

Not the speed.
Not the ego.
But the instinct. The feel. The willingness.

Snowmobiling demands attention — to the trail, to the terrain, to your own balance. It asks you to adjust. To respect what’s in front of you.

Starting over in my 50’s feels different than starting in my 20’s.

There’s less ego.
More awareness.

My companion talks me through it — when to ease up, when to shift my weight, how the machine will respond. He shares what he knows calmly, generously.

And what stands out most?

I am accepted exactly where I am.

Just me — as I am.

It’s cold. It’s unfamiliar. It’s humbling.

And I am filled with gratitude.

Pure joy.

Because this isn’t just about adrenaline.

It’s about remembering I’m still capable — still willing — still very much alive.

What Winter Teaches Me

I think back to those ice-covered trees on the road to Speculator.

At first glance, they look frozen.

But when the light hits them, they shimmer.

This winter, I fall and laugh.
I get lost and recalibrate.
I feel sun on my face and wind at -20.
I stand under a pink sky with the moon rising.

I receive patience.
I practice perseverance.
I allow myself to be exactly where I am.

I stop fighting winter
because I stop fighting myself.

I am still a sun, sand, and surf woman.

But now I know:

Winter doesn’t diminish my fire.

It refines it. 

Love and Gratitude, Sheri