The clouds hang heavy, the sky a moving blob of white. The weather has been stagnant the past few days, as if unsure whether to snow or not. Late winters often stretch from mid-January into March and April in Central Oregon but this year feels different. Mt. Bachelor opened later than usual and even beyond our state, snow has been slow to settle. Much of the country sits under gray skies and quiet, still landscapes.
Coming back to campus after a long break feels slower than usual. The cozy freedom of mornings at home and the warmth of time spent with family and friends are replaced by the rhythm of classes and the hum of heaters in the empty halls. The thought of settling back into schoolwork feels heavy, though assignments aren’t yet pressing. Winter already seems long, and the gray days stretch on in both the sky and the mood of the campus.
Students move through frost-crisp air. Scarves pulled tight against the biting wind. Backpacks snug. Headphones tucked in. The hushed campus mirrors the stillness outside. I can sense the strain in these first days settling quietly on everyone, a subtle reminder that adjusting takes time. This winter carries a heaviness I haven’t felt in a while.
It’s the start of a new year and we’ve already seen fatal shootings of civilians by ICE agents in Minneapolis. Renée Good and Alex Pretti. Just weeks apart. These tragedies resonated across the country—their names spoken in protests and calls for accountability. Even here it settled into conversations and classrooms, alongside the steady presence of people questioning what justice looks like. Beyond that, images from Palestine, Venezuela, Iran and other places shaped by violence and loss continue to surface in our feeds. We pass by it during ordinary moments, a swipe of the thumb, sometimes feeling numb as screens glow over campus walks. Yet the insistence to understand and respond persists. Sometimes I pause just to breathe, noticing how these events sink into the crunch of leaves beneath my shoes or the inked scribbles in my notebooks.
Within the slow drag of winter I find pockets of warmth that sustain me. Coffee shops fill with quiet chatter. Fireplaces flicker in common rooms. Sunlight occasionally glints off bare branches. Friends exchange small gestures: a scarf passed along, a notebook lent, a quiet word of encouragement.
Some days, the heaviness lingers. Some days, I feel the weight of both nationwide and global tragedies press into quiet moments. Still, small acts catch my attention, like sharing a chai latte at the campus cafe or laughing together as the frost crunches underfoot.
Step by step, sip by sip, these small comforts remind me that the season isn’t just gray—it can also hold memories of ease, peace, and quiet resolve. Returning slowly doesn’t mean giving up. It means paying attention to the world around me, noticing how people care for each other and letting these little things make it feel okay, and I see how they ripple outward in subtle ways—someone smiles, someone pauses, someone feels a little less alone. These little moments thread throughout the winter days, reminders that connection and unity exist all around campus, quietly holding us up as we move forward.
