Both Veri-husband and I have itchy feet. Throughout our twenties we moved incessantly, always looking for a new place with different features, the change meaning letting go of some of the tiresome drawbacks of wherever we lived.

During my November trip to Arizona, I gulped in the warm sunshine of a place I once called home, relishing late sunsets and memories of a dry heat that swathed me as I walked outdoors, and of course, endless sunshine that forbade bad moods to linger for very long.

Upon returning to a Maine winter, I started to wonder down a familiar mental path of imaginings… no more freezing winters, no more chopping ice, veri-husband could ride his scooter year-round. And, of course, the enticing change a move brings.

Then, after the second big snowfall of the season we strapped on our snowshoes and took the dogs for a walk at dusk (which, of course, is 4pm this time of year). The snow was pristine, a smooth blanket of bright white coating everything in a virginal wrap. As we walked along the river, watching rich lavender streak across an azure sky brightened by a glowing fire of a sunset, colors only seen a few months of the year, I realized once again how pretty our frozen north is.

There is nothing like living within four strong seasons, each bursting forth and demanding to be heard and recognized. For every freezing winter there is the thrill of the first blooms, and for every sweltering summer there are the cool, crisp days of autumn dazzling us as we say goodbye to warmer climes until the spring.