It’s cold. It’s dark. It’s lonely. The season passed without so much of a public carol and now I’m in the thralls of the bitter winter.

I just want to fold into a little clam like the five-year old boy on my mini bus. Every afternoon he does, without fail. His eye lids slide down. His arms fall slack. And his small body slumps over  into a complete yogi fold. He’s closed up, resting. Hibernating until he gets off at the second to last stop.

I remind myself my saving grace is I’m now living at Latitude 41. The closest to the equator I’ve ever spent a winter season. This is significant because I’m  six degrees more south than I was at either of my previous residences: Seattle and Budapest are both at Latitude 47.

I’ve also brightened up my days by downloading and listening to podcasts during my minibus rides. I’ve now traveled to the villages of Toga where sustainable farming is taking place; been to Haiti and felt the ache of the hungry,  listened with intentness to Parker Palmer talk about the paradoxes of Christianity and the evolution of faith; and listened to classical music commentary.  The wicked turns and traffic jams are now experienced through the insightful patina of NPR special tunes. The thickness of the occasional do-gooder commentary butters up the do-gooder inside me, too.

Perhaps the best gift this winter was hearing the Todd Boss poem “My Joy Doubled,” which fit perfectly into my just-post-dawn bus ride. The windows on the hills all eye-like, reflecting the churning sky and magenta morning sun. He made my season stand still and let me hold reflection and new days dear. And I’m so happy for it.

Read the poem here.