Yeah, it snowed again. For the eleventy-billionth time since October. But it was so still and lovely yesterday that even my bitter, winter-hating heart cracked open a tiny bit as I tromped around in all that white (which reads a little yellow here. Oops*). I found this fellow tied up next door and, even though he’s a snow dog and built for these conditions, I was thisclose to bringing him inside and tucking him under the Snuggie.

*Said yellow could be due to the fact that I had the camera set to portrait style, to bring out the warm tones in skin, and forgot to set it to landscape, which highlights blues and greens, or it could have been an overenthusiastic slider correction in photoshop (I get a little excited making the colors dance). I do not believe it has anything to do with the earworm I can’t stop singing this morning, which I’m now going to pass along—you’re welcome! You know the one: Watch out where the huskies go, and don’t you eat that yellow snow…

I woke up last Sunday feeling resolute. Although we’d had the sort of snowstorm that makes “white christmas” sound like a curse, I knew it was a day for walking.

I have this restless spirit in me, and sometimes I have to walk it out, clock some miles at street level to appease the beast.

Although Lincoln’s a world-class biking town, it’s not as good for walkers. I mean, you can walk anywhere, all that takes is legs. But this is not a strollable town; you can’t reach everything you need on foot in most neighborhoods.

Most people drive everywhere; even to the places where they walk their dogs. This is not unique to Lincoln, we’ve exurbed ourselves into people who mostly sit—behind the wheel, at our computers, in front of the TV; into people whose longest hikes are through big box stores, searching for new ways to be passive, to pacify our relentless hungers.

So it seemed right, last Sunday, to put on my long johns and snowboots and take to the streets for a five-mile trek across town. This is the first real break I’ve had from work since I started nearly a year ago. And it’s the end of a hard year,  and a devastating decade.

I figured a walk would give me some clear space in which to prepare for the year ahead. Blow out the pipes, you know? Shake off the clench of the decade, armor myself against the aughts. Ready myself for better times.

Every walk has its beginning, when you’re full of purpose and drive.

But a walk is mostly middle, where the real work of the journey happens: letting your feet decide which route feels right, pausing to stretch that sore hip flexor, snapping a shot of something you just now noticed, even though you’ve driven past a thousand times.

And every walk has its destination, whether its back where you started, someplace you meant to go, or a place you discover in the process of walking. In this case, I knew I’d end up with this one in my arms; incentive to keep moving forward.

When you’re out on a winter day, walking has more obstacles. There’s the cold that sneaks in under mufflers, the unshoveled sidewalks and the barely scalable drifts, the unseen ice waiting to take you down.

Just like January, new-fallen snow feels so promising. It’s all that white, so clean, covering up all the dead grass and the worn spots. But white never lasts; it goes to grey, to brown, the hopeful crunch of fresh snow turning to muck and slush on us.

Of course, no matter how many miles I mean to cover, there are the inevitable pee breaks. Blame it on my lilliputian bladder and the brobdinagian fibroid that sits adjacent.

Lady-aging sucks. It’s not just the visible shit, although that’s hard enough. It’s your insides going to grey, to brown, turning to muck and slush on you.

And then there’s the loneliness. I finally figured out why people get married, have kids: so you’re not the only one disturbing the air in your house, not the only one in bed at night, not the only one who sees the possibilities in new-fallen snow.

My psychic friend assures me that next year will be better; it’s in the cards, in the numbers, she says. And, although I don’t roll the bones or even read my horoscope, I have clutched onto that thought like a frightened child to her father’s neck.

But 2010 is finally here. And I don’t want to clutch onto anything anymore. So I have faith that this year will be better. It has to be better, for all of us, for everyone I love and everyone I know. We’ll heal ourselves, heal each other. And we’ll find what we need, find each other.

Although I like a clean slate, I’m not really a resolution person. I can never seem to get it up for the big moments, the shared markers. But this year I need to be less alone.

I need to really inhabit my home, wherever it ends up being.

I need to leave room for the sun to come out, even on days where the grey seems leaden and oppressive.

I need to believe in the blue sky, no matter where I’m walking, or how much muck and slush I’m walking through.

Happy new year, and thanks for stopping by. Whoever you are, wherever you are, you are part of my tribe, my sangha. Thanks for making me feel less alone.

This is what I woke up to this morning, and what I’ve spent the day with, as well:

We’ve been in the kitchen all day long, staked out in the comfy chair with the laptop and the paper and the big new Ayn Rand bio, which is as repellently riveting as its subject. I had other plans for the day, but it’s been snowing, so we’ve settled in for the extended hang. This is how the winters work around here: big blankets, small dogs, and a chance to catch up on my reading.

So far today, I’ve done part of the crossword, had a couple gallons of tea in one cup increments, made at least ten trips upstairs to offload liquids, researched big-girl cameras (what can I say, I’m craving the bokeh), dinked around on the internet (although the wifi’s wee at this end of the house), and plowed through the better part of Rand’s adulthood, from the writing of The Fountainhead and Atlas Shrugged to her elevation as Our Lady of Laissez-Faire, the culty queen of unfettered capitalism.

For me, seeing a hotly-thumbed copy of Rand’s masterworks of selfishness on a new dude’s bookshelf is, as they say, a real bonerkiller. But not everyone feels the same way. Back in 1998, Modern Library polled readers on their favorite books and Rand won the top two spots. In all, she had a total of four books in the top eight, which only goes to show that there have been a lot of college sophomores out there, looking for heroic validation of their BIG DREAMZ and their spiraling self-absorption.

I wonder what Rand would make of the hillbilly hellraisers who are going Galt in her name? I mean, talk about your moochers and looters. It’s like the objectionists meet the objectionables. Or from Roark to Dork.

(Stop me, I could go all night…)

So, did you have a rational self-interest phase back at the good ol’ University (or did you just read Rand for the sex scenes)? And what camera and lenses would you recommend? Any thoughts on either one?

Time for bed again. Say goodnight, Archie:

The residents at the Smithsonian’s National Zoo are enjoying their first snowfall of the year way more than I’ve been enjoying my tenth.

Even the flamingos can hang, thanks to their heated wading pool (it’s just like hot-tubbing in the mountains!):

Everyone’s having fun except for this fellow:

Red Panda, come sit by me. We can bitch about winter while those cheerful sorts frolic.

Fantastic shots by Mehgan Murphy of the Smithsonian’s National Zoo. See more here. And oh dear lord, they have a BABY GORILLA!