Monday, January 19, 2009

Things I Tell Myself As I Shovel

Yeah, I do the same thing that anyone does when faced with an obscene hill of white crud. I pull muscles trying to get the driveway cleared before my feet freeze. I forget to lift with my legs. I get a runny nose, and I curse my ancestors for ever leaving the homeland (even though the homeland isn't a whole lot warmer). I threaten to defect to somewhere tropical, even if it means putting up with a dictator and chronic sunburn. And then I finish, I go back inside, and I get philosophical about the whole exercise.

First of all, it's only snow. Instead of shovelling meteorological slop, I could be pushing a scoop through manure, entrails, or any manner of unspeakable goo. It's a neutral colour, it doesn't stain, and it doesn't stink.

From a cultural perspective, I'm a Canadian, and part of my identity hinges on this beastly ritual. This, along with taxes, is the price I pay for free healthcare, safe streets, Tim Hortons and excellent comedians. Moreover, if it weren't for winter, I'd have far fewer impressive horror stories to tell people in other countries.

Metaphysically speaking, it's important to remember that without evil, there can be no good. Without darkness, there can be no light. Without months of this depressing, chilly purgatory, there can be no appreciation of the bliss that comes with spring. In six months, the BBQ will taste better, the flowers will seem more colourful, and the popsicles will seem that much more refreshing because I had to wait for them.

When it comes down to it, this is Mother Nature's way of reminding me of how very little control I have. I may be master of my own destiny in many ways, but every so often, it's healthy to be humbled like this. Some mornings, it's actually nice to be told "Sit. Stay."