The new year has barely begun, but we know seismic change is just around the corner. We look to the weeks ahead hot with worry while embracing winter’s cool indifference. We burrow, hibernate, take our time—but we also walk.
I do, at least.
New York City gets the gift of a snowy Christmas Eve, the first in over a decade. I jump out of bed—hair unbrushed, clothes thrown on haphazardly—and embark on a solo stroll through my neighborhood. As expected, it’s quieter than usual. A few cars disrupt the white palette, reintroducing depth to the landscape. At each crosswalk, I wait for the vehicles to inch down the block, too buoyed by the scenery to fall victim to impatience.
I would rather walk in the snow than drive under a stretch of sun—then again, I never learned how to drive. I know nothing about changing a tire and can barely navigate, even with GPS. I only knew I wanted a green Volkswagen Beetle as my first car. That dream dissipated when, at age twelve, I moved to New York. It was midwinter: dark, quiet, and dazzling. Even in the cold, the city gave me my first taste of autonomy. Soon, I would walk to school, the store, an entirely different neighborhood. Walking became a cherished ritual—a welcome opportunity to slow down and notice details that would have been missed had I been behind the wheel.
A memory: During my brief college stint, I didn’t enlist any help moving between the freshman and sophomore dorms. I packed up my former room in two large suitcases and dragged them back and forth—from 7th Avenue to 9th Avenue—over the course of an entire day. This steadfast determination might have foreshadowed my path to “success.”
The movement continues, but nowadays, there is less huffing and puffing to the finish line—more weaving and wondering. Or just plain wonder.
This winter, in particular, I’m wondering about New York. After a years-long period of disdain, I’ve started to fall in love with it again—which is to say, I’ve fallen in love with the impossible. While I stand by the idea that you can live intentionally here, it’s become a matter of expense and endurance. Of aging. Of compromise. These realities pull me in different directions depending on the day. And in the moments when I don’t feel like I’m in the driver’s seat of my own life, I remember there is momentum beneath the surface. My drive to stay active and engaged in the world continues, even if it takes me a little longer to get to where I’m going.
One foot in front of the other, life happens on these slow strolls, no matter where I am or where I end up.
Another snowstorm arrives on January 6th. A fitting date. The sky cries an icy mix of despair and joy. By now, the poets have taught us how to hold both at once. I think of this passage in Katherine May’s Wintering:
“Snow creates that quality of awe in the face of a power greater than ours. It epitomizes the aesthetic notion of the sublime, in which greatness and beauty couple to overcome you—a small, frail human—entirely.”
The snow comes down harder, and I can’t bring myself to look away, so I stand in the middle of it. I don’t wear a jacket, and the large flakes kiss my hair, my sweater, my anxious heart. It’s a strange decision, but a decision nonetheless. It doesn’t always have to make sense—the weather, the wonder, the world. It just has to keep us moving.
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For Your Next Chapter
If you enjoyed this slow story, here are a few others that might slow your scroll:
“How to Fall in Love with Winter” by
Sandy Sanchez’s newsletter,
, offers big delights. As a fellow winter lover, I was inspired by Sanchez’s practical tips for positively engaging with the season. As she remarks, the simplest things like appreciating sparkling light or wearing a beautiful coat—both rituals I personally love—can offer a change in perspective. (Stay tuned for my next installment of Chapters featuring more of Sanchez’s insights.)“The soft week” by Emma Leokadia Walkiewicz of
Walkiewicz always pens such vivid essays about time and place. I can feel the drip of each season in her sentences. Her latest pays homage to that liminal space between the end and beginning of another year. As she writes in the piece, “The rules and hours are bent, they have deep pockets and secret corridors.”
“On Hunger & Consumption” by
I was recently tagged in this lovely piece by filmmaker Elaine McMillion Sheldon, who graciously responded to “All, Consuming” from my book, Slowing. Her essay is a gentle reminder to plan (or not!) with intention. I don’t think I’m spoiling too much by sharing the last sentence, but this was such a resonant finish: “The year will fly by—it always does. But maybe, with small daily actions, I can stretch time just enough to feel its weight.”
Lovely. Looks like we live in the same neighborhood, I think. These photos are so so familiar to ones on my camera roll.
I love a winter walk!!! We're still waiting for snow here in Wisconsin, but I'm so excited to get outside and be surrounded by the quiet when it comes.