Without

My Father (a/k/a The Magician) always said:

“It’s all in the way you look at things.”

It is snowing (again); the temperature is 12 degrees, and I am still isolating due to fear of Covid and assorted members of the Covid family.

The choice is mine. I can opt to be depressed, fearful and don the heavy helmet of “Oh woe is me.” or

I can remember other snowy days.

Once when I was quite young and striving desperately for an image of perfection, snow evoked quite a different scenario.

The falling flakes meant the possibility of meeting two fun loving young men, Tim and Dan; grabbing our sleds and heading toward Central Park.

Love was never part of our vocabulary, but laughter was. That was possibly far more important in those troubling times as we three left adolescence reluctantly.

Before two more winters had passed, we would part ways and emerge into the far more complicated path of maturity.

Then not too many moons later, (decades before anyone even worried about masks,) I owned and cherished. several small delicate veils. They were not worn in order to join a cloister.

No, those I purchased were rather expensive, often dotted with small sequins or discrete pearls and barely covered my eyes.

They were the height (or so I then innocently believed) of fashion for any young female New Yorker.

Looking back in time the fragile veils were far less comfortable then today’s obligatory mask, but in my youthful naiveté, I truly believed the intrigue of a discrete veil achieved the long desired aura of sophistication.

Not so very many years later, a forecast of snow meant a day at home with four amazing youngsters. While their Father braved the storm and headed to his NYC office, his entrenched family slept late (or I did), watched mindless cartoons, and made cookies or brownies, and munched on cold leftovers.

We laughed, never spoke or worried if spring would come or flowers would bloom or if the world was ending,

Perhaps that may be the antidote to today’s fragile atmosphere..

Rather than viewing today with dread, and dwelling on the negative, I must begin to savor the intriguing possibilities.

Although it is cold and I am isolated, I also have time (and yes, give myself total permission) to start “The Maid” (highly recommended by one and all critics), air-fry a delicious Kouign-amann (a name I cannot pronounce) that arrived yesterday from one of the Fabulous Four, and after twilight follow the new Julian Fellow’s excursion into yesterday.

Life is quite amazing when I take off the dark glasses. And possibly if I paste some sequins on the mask, I might not find it so annoying.