#NewThisDay Writing From My Photo Stream

branch in snow, Charles River

The dogs are not happy to see me go out the door at 7:00 a.m. without them. Our walk will have to wait. I drive to Worcester to present an experiential workshop for MSW students: an introduction to psychodrama. We have three hours, and when I invite them into action, happily, they say yes. One very successful warm-up I lead has to do with asking them to think about something they wore or felt or carried during winter that they would like to shed as spring is arriving. We make an imaginary pile of sweaters and snow and fears and fires and newborn babies and snow days. . . and more, and then, part two, as we look at the pile, to then reach in to the pile, and take out something that can be transformed as something you need or want for spring, and hope is taken, and rebirth, and a winter fire becomes a summer campfire and what I take from the pile is the snow. Because snow is water, and I love water, in the river, in lakes in the ocean, and snow goes into ground water and is cycled up to the clouds and down again into rain, and I want to swim in the water that was snow.

In the late afternoon, I arrive home for our walk. I choose the snowshoes and we go out, and it's freezing, so much colder than I expected, and I have mistakenly dressed for spring weather. But the dogs aren't cold, they are relived and happy to be in the woods in the snow. And so am I.

All photos and text copyright Kelly DuMar 2018