The First Glimpse of Concrete Driveway

Today, for the first time since last November, I can see the bare concrete of the driveway. It looks plain and ordinary, yet it feels almost new to my eyes. The snow has finally pulled back enough to reveal what was there all along.

This has been a long winter. The kind many people remember from years ago. Snow came early and stayed. The cold settled in and did not hurry away. Even now, the snowbanks remain high. At one point they rose more than three feet, covering the lower branches of the street trees. They are slowly melting, but they let go in their own time.

For nearly four months, everything has felt white and still. When winter lingers like this, it quietly teaches patience. There is no way to rush it. We can only live through it, one day at a time.

Conversations in the Cold

When I was working, I would see nineteen or twenty patients in a day. No matter the season, the weather was a simple place to begin. It belongs to everyone. In winter, it gave us something shared to talk about.

People described gentle snow falling in the evening light. They spoke of whiteouts on the highway, freezing rain tapping against windows, sudden snow squalls, and heavy blizzards that closed the roads. Each person had their own story of the same winter.

Sometimes there was laughter. Sometimes quiet acceptance. In long winters, there are days when people feel they can only wait. Like a bear in a cave, resting until the season changes. When the snow is deep and the sky stays gray, it can feel as if nothing else exists beyond the cold.

Yet, beneath all those conversations, there was an understanding. Winter does not stay forever. However long and harsh it may be, it eventually moves aside. Spring comes, as it always has. Warmth returns. The world softens.

If we did not believe this, it would be hard to endure the season.

An Experiment in the Basement

Last year, from late September to early November, I bought several shrubs on sale. It felt practical, but also hopeful. Before the deep cold arrived, I took softwood cuttings. I knew it was late in the season. They might not have enough time to root outside.

I wondered what to do. Leave them outdoors and let nature decide? Or bring them in and try something new?

In the end, I carried them into the basement. I placed them under simple shop lights for a few hours every few days. I watered them lightly about every three weeks. I had never tried to keep outdoor cuttings alive this way. It was uncertain, but I wanted to try.

In the past, I had rooted indoor plant cuttings in water with great success. They responded quickly and clearly. These were different. For more than three months, they looked like nothing more than small sticks in the soil. No leaves. No visible change.

They remained still and endured.

Signs of Life

This morning, as I watered them, I noticed something small but unmistakable. On a few of the hydrangea and black sedum cuttings, tiny green leaves were beginning to show.

For months, they had seemed lifeless. Quiet. Unchanged. And now, without announcement, new growth.

They had spent the winter in cool air and dim light. They did not rush. They did not fail because nothing was visible. They simply waited until the time was right.

There is something steady and reassuring about that.

The Hope That Carries Us

Whether we are speaking of plants or people, difficult seasons are part of life. When we are in them, they can feel endless. Personal struggles can weigh on the heart in the same way heavy snow weighs on the branches.

Yet change often begins where we cannot see it. Beneath the surface. In silence.

As I walk through a challenging time with my daughter, I remind myself of this. There are moments that feel uncertain and heavy. But I hold onto a quiet hope. Just as those small cuttings were not truly lifeless, relationships are not without the possibility of renewal.

I have seen winter give way before.
I have seen small green leaves appear after long months of stillness.

Spring has come year after year.

It will come again.

Young Mee

02/20/2026, 8:20 pm at 1 degree centigrade