Before the sun finally turns back to spring, the Big Dipper tilts away to the north over Otter Creek.
There’s a kind of cold that makes most people stay inside. A kind that bites my cheeks, stiffens my fingers, and makes me wonder if stepping outside is really worth it. This is one of those nights.
The fields are silent. The hills are nothing but dark shapes. The air has a stillness that only comes when winter has settled in — no wind, no sound, just cold and stars.
I’ve written before about going outside when it’s uncomfortable, but nights like this deserve repeating. There’s something important about going outside when the cold pushes you back in.
Above the ridge, the stars are clear. The Big Dipper is tilted, leaning into winter the way it does only just before the solstice.
Maybe it’s the absence of distraction. Whatever the reason, standing out there, tracing the Dipper with my eyes, I’m anchored and grounded by something ancient.
There’s no need for a telescope or fancy gear. Just warm layers, stillness, time and willingness to be cold for a little while.
Discomfort – cold – has a purpose. It connects us to the rhythm of the seasons.
The stars don’t care whether we’re warm or not — they shine regardless. But when we choose to step outside and look, the sky opens up.
Out here in Otter Creek, beneath a tilted Big Dipper and a sky full of winter stars, it feels like a reminder worth listening to: winter isn’t something to hide from.
It’s something to stand in.
Cold fingers fade.
The stars stay.