Mary Novaria

First published in HuffPost Author's Note: I wrote this piece a few years ago while living in Los Angeles. It takes on new meaning in our first winter living in Colorado where winter really is winter! The snowy mountains are stunningly beautiful and I am cheered by regular wildlife visitors, warm fireplaces, and hot cups of tea. Namaste.  With apologies to T.S. Eliot, April is not the cruelest month. February is far more foreboding. Even as hope springs eternal, Punxsutawney Phil sees his shadow. We’re tempted to crawl back into our proverbial holes and, if we have no sweetheart, we may feel like staying there well past Valentine’s Day.  January is no picnic, either. It’s the starting line for a multitude of sprints and marathons. In the New Year, the world pumps its fists and waves the flag of resolve, shouting, “Ready! Set! Go!” It seems everyone is jumping on the treadmill, but I don’t want to enter the race. In fact, I don’t want to get off the sofa. ...

For some, February 1 is a “Rabbit, Rabbit” thing. And February 2 is Groundhog Day. I’ve written before, with apologies to T.S. Eliot, that it is February, and not April, that is the cruelest month. Dates and anniversaries are important to me. Even when I neglect to send a card or outwardly acknowledge an occasion, I’m usually mindful, grateful, and thinking fondly of the people or events involved. My niece was born 17 years ago this weekend. February 1 there was a terrific ice storm in Kansas City. Lots of folks lost power — good thing the hospital didn’t! — and my brother and sister-in-law had friends without light and heat staying in their home while they were welcoming their first born in the hospital. That same day, one of my besties (we’re sort of Three Musketeers) was traveling by train to KC from western Kansas for a routine doctor’s appointment. The ice forced delays; her Kansas City hotel was without power; the other bestie and I brazenly inte...