It's funny how quickly things can shift into metaphor. It was a beautiful day yesterday -- unseasonably warm so I decided to go outside, make myself useful, and, as my Dad used to say, "blow the stink off". The first blizzard covered the west sidewalk under four feet of snow, and I was determined to break through because (a.) it was becoming more and more hazardous teetering through the smaller drifts to get the mail, and (b.) I'm stubborn.
It took two implements to accomplish my feat -- a snow shovel for obvious reasons and a spade to crack into the ice layer. At one point I was standing atop the drift trying to gain some leverage, and, let's face it, playing king of the hill. Happily I had climbed down before the UPS truck pulled in.
About halfway through the drift, the voices started in: "People have heart attacks shoveling snow, you know."; "You won't be able to move your arms in the morning."; "I heard about a guy who was swallowed by snow and paralyzed when the snow shovel hit him in the head." All kinds of rational stuff. But that's the way fear works in my head -- in a quiet, niggly voice that sounds remarkably like a Sunday school teacher I used to have.
Then I knew I had to keep going -- because I don't always. I let silly things derail me. I back down or go around, throw in the towel. I can't afford to do that any more because there are things I really want to accomplish this year -- finishing my novel, getting rid of our unsightly outbuildings, putting in new flower beds. I couldn't let a little thing like four feet of snow defeat me even if I did have a heart attack.
Which I didn't. And my arms move just fine this morning. And now I can retrieve the mail without having to harness the sled dogs.
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