On February 7, 2024

What season is it today? Snowbathing season 

Winter has arrived. In fits and starts as the pattern is now.

It came in an all-day snowstorm, covering every surface in deep, furry pillows of white. All wildlife went silent, hidden and still. They will return when the storm passes. Hungry.

Cold constricts and heat expands. Sick with Covid and the unhelpful gremlins Gripe, Grumble, and Impatience, I needed some playful healing. As I view all unwellness (in mind, body, and spirit) as inflammation, winter is ripe with “out the door” healing.

I envision snow, cold air, and cold water (for snow swimming) as giant ice packs. Ice packs for healing every type of booboo. Snowstorms are a healing gift that falls from the sky.

I cannot wait to go outside and play in the snow. I strip off my jammies and pull on winter boots, hat, and my beloved, hand-me-down, fur coat. I pocket a lighter and the smudge stick I made of winter herbs and head outside. The snow is coming in fast as I head into the woods up to SheCamp.

The clearing is a snow globe. Untouched by wing, paw, or foot. Every snowflake lies where it landed. Undisturbed.

I walk the perimeter and stand under an old pine tree. I tip my head back, close my eyes, and listen to the wind whisper through the top. A windsong.

I light my smudge stick and circle the smoke of sage, rosemary, spearmint, thyme, lemon balm, lavender, and parsley, around my head, body, and bottoms of my feet. The smoke and falling snow mix in a gray-white trail as I compose a tiny prayer.

“To all negativity, unwellness, and sickness of every kind; down-down-down you go into the snow, letting you go.”I smile. And say thank you out loud for my ears and everything hidden to hear.

I open my eyes and watch snowflakes land on the glowing, orange end of the smudge stick. With a spit and sizzle, the fire goes out.

I hang my coat on a low branch, step out of my boots, and stuff my hat in one. I sink to the ground and lie in the snow on my back. I know it will be cold, so I embrace it. Expect it. I slow my breathing and remind myself that discomfort is simply a stone wall I need to climb over to reach the magic on the other side.

I scoop tall handfuls of snow on my head and scrub. I feel the delicate but sharp snow crystals across my scalp, hair, and face, then scrub behind my ears. My breath sharpens as the snow warms and waters against my skin, sliding down my back in clumps. I imagine all unwellness exiting through my skin, sliding down down down with the snow. To the ground.

I reach for fresh handfuls of snow and scrub my neck, shoulders, armpits, stomach, and chest. I sit up, scooping all the snow I can reach onto my lap, and second-scrub the landscape of my skin.

I stand, move to a fresh patch of snow, and lie on my stomach.

I lower my face and gently compress the airy snowflakes into a face mask.

The warmth from my breath melts the snow, bathing my face in cold, clean, snow water. I am taking the waters. Once again, I imagine all negativity, unwellness, and sickness, sliding down down down to the snow, letting it go.

I stand, and using the palms of my hands, shluff the clinging snow clumps off my bright pink skin and redress. I smile, say thank you and head down the hill to breakfast.

After breakfast, I gather the toys and gear I need to ski out my door and into the farmers’ fields that gave me permission to ski on their land.

In the last hour of daylight, as the storm is tapering down, I head to my nearby lake for a swim. This late arriving winter has left the lake surface free of ice. But the snow is cooling the water and floats in great bergs of slush on the surface.

I swim straight for the slushy bergs and laugh out loud as I imagine myself an olive in a giant martini. A snowmantini.

By nightfall, I head home, having wrung every drop of fun and wellness from the season it was—today.

In the Funology calendar. There are 365 seasons a year.

Each day offers a unique opportunity to be well by taking fun seriously.

What season is it where you are today?

For more information about the author, visit: sandradeeowens.com.

By Sandra Dee Owens 


I swim straight for the slushy bergs and laugh 
outloud as I imagine myself an olive in a giant 
martini. A snowmantini.


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