Osler's Razor

It is cold and snowy this March in Minnesota, and I know that is supposed to make me do one of two things:  Either complain bitterly and express a yearning for the beach, or laugh at how those people in places like Waco or Atlanta don't know how to handle a little snow, just a fraction of what we have to deal with.  Both of those seem ungracious, though, and at the moment not true.

There is great beauty in this late winter, with its high sun and beautiful light.  I like it.  

There is a small, gentle river that runs all through Edina and Minneapolis, Minnehaha Creek.  It twists and turns all over, like a string dropped by a child onto the map of my town.  The people who built the houses and streets had the wisdom not to submerge it or pave over the creek, and in the summer there are people in kayaks and canoes and tubes floating down behind St. Stephen's church, through Arden Park, and then close by my house.

Two days ago, late in the day, I set off over the creek on my skis.  I wasn't the only one; there were tracks in the deep snow, and a fellow traveler here and there.  The creek-top trail takes you through parks, between backyards, and under the bridges of the streets now and then.  It is remarkably calm on the creek, silent and still.  As I skied, the light changed as dusk fell and began to filter through the willows and the maples by the creek.

Sometimes I would stop and guess where I was, trying to place myself on the usual map of streets and stores and stoplights.  It takes so little to change the world.