Last June, I moved to a tiny house on a West Michigan lake. Living here was bliss during the summer; the big deck overlooking the lake was my real living room. I took coffee there in the mornings, ate lunch in the dappled shade, read or knitted the sleepy afternoons away, grilled dinner on the deck and closed each day with a glass of wine by candlelight in the silent evenings.

Now winter has closed in. Fourteen inches of snow shroud the deck and icicles festoon the bird feeders. The wind chime still makes its music, but the snow caps on its clapper and paddle slow its rhythm to waltz time. All the summer neighbors have departed, and life here on the lake now includes just a few hardy neighbors whose woodsmoke scents the air when I take the dog out.

Over the last two weeks, we’ve had snow every day in varying amounts. The temperatures have never risen above freezing. For four days, I couldn’t get my car up the hill to the road. Even if I could have, I couldn’t really have gone anywhere: The county’s road crews hadn’t gotten to our road yet.

No matter. I keep a well-stocked pantry and freezer, so groceries could wait. I invested some time last summer in canning and preserving, so I have a good supply of canned and frozen fruit and vegetables. Between knitting and spinning yarn for my shop on Etsy.com, where artisans sell one-of-a-kind hand-crafted items, and reading, I had plenty to do. And plenty of time to think.

It would be easy to look over my shoulder and long for the lovely days of summer, when life was soft and easy. I listen to other people’s conversations when I’m out in the world, and marvel at their choice to do just that. 

Instead, I prefer to revel in these short days and long nights. I cherish the snow and admire the audacity of the titmice and woodpeckers that visit my frozen suet feeder. I laugh when my black dog comes in from a romp in the yard with his muzzle frosted in white, his feet booted in clumps of snow, his inky eyes sparkling with the sheer pleasure of playing in more than a foot of cottony fluff.

Yet I know something the dog doesn’t know: For everything, there is a season. This wintry landscape will once again give way to the plushness of summer, when living will again be carefree. Tough times don’t last.

And how can one savor the pleasure of ease if one’s never known the rigors of restriction? Were it not for these  bitter days, I might take those lovely long summer days for granted.

Last summer, a potter friend gifted me with a handsome terra cotta tile he’d made. He impressed the wet clay with stalks of wheat, then covered the tile to let it rest while he went on vacation. When he returned, the grains of wheat had sprouted. You can see the tracks of the rootlings on the back of the tile. His tile serves as a constant reminder to me that life always triumphs, even in adversity.

Winter can’t last. Our current economic woes won’t, either. In the meantime, I’m making it a point to savor every bit of both. When good times roll around again, these are the days I’ll remember, as I lift a glass of wine on the deck on a soft evening. 

Life always triumphs.