It’s December 26th in Connecticut. The ponds are frozen and they’re calling for ten inches of snow to slam the East Coast tonight. The house is stocked with beer, wine, and bourbon, and I’ve got enough firewood to fuel New York should we suddenly revert to coal.
Any other time, I’d be ecstatic, sharpening shovels, prepping chili, readying the recreation. But tonight we were meant to fly to England for a week — a trip planned for months, involving grandparents, sisters, mothers, three hotels, reservations and so on - a trip that as of last night, it will have to wait.
Today has been a master class in perception. On paper, this would be a Super Bowl day for me: nothing on the calendar, snow falling, fireplace crackling. Bing crosby on the player. Instead, from the second we got the alert, I went into war mode — trying to re-route, get out earlier, get out later. Tickets were bought. Tickets were canceled. Delta, JetBlue, British Airways — even Norse got consulted.
All day I compulsively checked the weather, Google Flights, and Flighty, hoping five seats might magically appear on some unaffected route — despite nearly 1,500 cancellations across the board.
Even now, I’m not sure I’ve fully swallowed the pill. I’m writing this as much for myself as for you. I’m admittedly controlling and don’t love outcomes that sit outside my hands. (Who does) But what can you do? In a world where everyone tries to calculate life down to the second, maybe we need to welcome a few variables — and trust that things happen for a reason.
The Cotswolds aren’t going anywhere. Maybe we get out tomorrow — more likely the following day. So tonight I’m leaning in. Cozying up. Putting on a movie. Having a few beers and watching it pile on. In a world where snowstorms are becoming rarer, maybe it’s nice to let Mother Nature win one.
Cheers,
