After our blizzard last week, before the winds picked up and the mercury went down, we had a bit of a thaw.

When I walked my dog, I was careful to avoid patches of ice on the sidewalk, an act where I usually succeeded, and tried to step over deep pools of freezing slush at the ends of the block, a feat which seemed to be impossible.

Some days, I reveled in a little sunshine and smiled inwardly at how my COVID mask provided an unintended benefit. It kept my face warm.

Several times a day, I passed a few snowmen, which neighbors had formed between the street and sidewalk. Some had arms fashioned from old household brooms and some reached out with spare and fragile branches. Some bore facial features made out of food items, like a carrot for a nose and pieces of fruit for eyes.

The day after the snow stopped falling, two frozen figures caught my attention. One snowman looked like an amorphous blob suitable for a before photo in a Jenny Craig advertisement. The other was formed in the classic style of three stacked orbs, bigger to smaller from bottom to top.

After a few days, their dimensions shrunk, regardless of shape.  They were melting.

I caught myself laughing and crying at the thought.

Life is short.

It seems so ironic that I’d get this message, that life is short, so strongly by noticing the diminishing silhouettes of frozen figures within steps of my building.

The news has been full of heartache and loss. Each day, I’ve taken note of new pandemic statistics. I’ve heard the testimony of young congressmen and women who fear for their lives because of the inflamed rhetoric of some of their colleagues.

I’ve asked myself, What is the significance of  an individual life?

I’ve considered how a wife or husband might feel waking up to see the undisturbed quilt on the other side of a double bed they shared or think about a teenager who will never get to pursue a career. I’ve thought about how loss could be measured when an artist dies before having the opportunity to create a work that could prompt someone to think differently.

Then, I’ll think about my own life, the little things that give me pleasure: the smell of clove in the kitchen after baking ginger molasses cookies; the feel of cashmere on my shoulders after I crawl into a favorite sweater; the mild pressure on my scalp and delight I’ll feel when someone else shampoos my hair.

Does the finite nature of any life give extra meaning to it? Does having an unknown term add motivation to make the time count? Does the container of a life, limited by time, fuel the urge to gather one’s talents, to spread love and compassion whenever possible, or to experience as much joy as possible every day?

…And, I’ll conclude that I have to be grateful.  Every day. I’m grateful to live and breathe. To watch myself grow. To forgive when I’m ready. To take risks. To get second chances. To be surprised. To hurt and heal.

I’m grateful that I can reframe the way I look at things.

Replacing the thought “Life is short” with “Life is precious” is no small thing.