MUSINGS ON MORTALITY: DEAD OF WINTER - By Tony Lopresti

I’m writing this several hours before the much-anticipated spring equinox arrives.

I can’t wait! We’ve had a brutal winter in the northeast of the U.S. Weeks on end of unabated bitter cold. I don’t remember a season quite like it.

But I did learn the profound meaning of the phrase “the dead of winter”.

I was returning from an art gallery in Chelsea where a friend opened an exhibition of wooden sculptures. The sinewy shapes and delicate balances of the pieces played in my mind as I walked the several blocks to the nearest subway.

No one else was walking. I was alone on the street, remnants of snow frozen in graying mounds. The air of the ebony night sky seemed to sparkle with cold. Silence enveloped everything. Then I saw something.

In the middle of the block was a church. While the church seemed quiet and empty, the stained-glass windows glowed brightly from a powerful inner illumination. I stopped to take in the beauty of the colors which seemed to dance through the frozen air to my still warm, moist eyeballs.

The windows enchanted me. The cold slipped away from my consciousness. I felt only awe as I stood still before the vibrant light of the stained glass. I could have stayed all night to watch. And I would have died.

Bitter, black, enveloping cold creates a sense of calm. The senses tune into every beautiful quality of the night – except the cold. The frigid blackness lures you into another dimension. It’s a coping mechanism that numbs the fear of death so that all one is aware of is the beautiful life all around … as you slowly freeze.

The dead of winter.

I shook myself from my reverie and continued walking to the subway. As I warmed up in the train car I began to realize how cold I had become. While not as beautiful as the stained glass in the dark cold night, the warmth of the subway car relaxed my stiffened my fingers. My blood found its way back to the surface of my skin. A shiver reminded me of the winter I had just escaped.

And I yearned for spring.