Nature Hates You

The Iowa sky is still white and heavy, but for now it has stopped snowing. An inch or two has accumulated, and the entire landscape is patchy brown peeking through white. It was so quiet outside in the mysterious silence of softly falling snow. Fat flakes floated down from the sky and settled on branches and sidewalks and hats and shoulders. I thought of winter last year, when I sat at the kitchen counter, drinking coffee and looking out the window at the snow-covered fields. In the quiet of the moment, I watched a herd of eight deer run across the field and out of my sight. These have been some lovely moments of winter here, but I am not deceived. The regular stuff of winter is something entirely different.

Perhaps you have thought of winter in this mildly romantic sense. You are naive; it is a lie. These days only happen when winter is tired, or, as is more likely, scheming to get your guard down so that the next attack will more effectively destroy your very soul.

The naturalists have it all wrong. Nature is not an unfeeling force, whimsically unaware of your existence. Nature hates you. The wind doesn't blow here. It attacks you, maliciously rejoicing in your realizations of the futility of fleece, wool and all the research of the clothing manufacturers. This is a personal, vindictive hatred that will destroy and disrupt every element of your body and soul. It will not rest until it has ripped through the marrow of your bones, exchanging it for ice.

You try so hard to fight against it, but the effort itself hurts. Your muscles clench and stiffen in resistance, your shoulders hunch tighter and lower, your body thinking, "If I can only get small enough, compact enough, I'll be warm." But the snow- powdery, stinging, sharp- finds every crevice. Down your neck, through the cracks in your skin, drawn insatiably to the warmth of your body. The wind hurls snowflakes into the deepest parts of your ears in attempts to pierce your brain. Tears stream down your cheeks, blurring your vision. Who knows if they are merely a physical reaction, or if it is an outpouring of your own impotent rage? It doesn't matter. You will fade and die, and the wind will only howl in exultation.