Every year at about this time, I have a tradition.  I dream daily of moving to warmer temperatures.  I think about what it would be like to leave my house every day and have it be mild for nearly the entire year.  My heart longs for the seventies and I suddenly become so unhappy with where we live that it weighs very heavily on my heart.  I dread leaving my house in the winter.  The bone chilling cold stabs me in my innermost being and plummets whatever joyful mood I may be in.  Looking out my windows do the same.  Waking up and walking through my bedroom into my bathroom where the ceramic tile floor is about thirty degrees and immediately turn my feet into ice cubes.

But really, I’m just being a baby.  And then I’m convicted about how I should be content in all situations and I shouldn’t complain like I do.  And then February rolls into March, slowly, but surely, and March turns into April.  The flowers start popping out.  There is hope of warmer weather.  And then the beautiful three months of warmth renews me and temporarily erases the pain of winter.

And then it begins again.

I am destined to be a snowbird, I know this for sure.