The piles of snow are less pristine than they were last week. After a few days of slosh, it is less of a winter wonderland and more akin to the Frigidaire freezer my mother had to defrost every now and again. With a pan of hot water. There were always arctic peas and half empty ice cube trays to deal with. 

The way snowbanks narrow the road makes it tight to pass each other. Both drivers need to slow down and swerve, risking getting stuck in the refrozen ruts. But we usually know one another and lob a smile through the windshield. Even if we are late. 

The other day I was hustling, and found myself behind a trash truck. What a brutal task that is, hoisting spilled garbage from last month's celebrations in a perpetual line of refuse. The man had thick gloves and a serious coat, but could that really stave off the frigid air in a job that never goes indoors? I waved my hand to say "No hurry," hoping to not contribute to the sense of gitalong that probably follows in their wake even on an April day. It is an easy thing to slide into indignation, as if the forty seven seconds added to my commute will amount to more than a hill of beans. I used the interlude to think about this man, plus the one behind the wheel, and to wish them well. 

The illusion is that Real Work begins when we step through the office door, or arrive at an event. But what of the interactions that pepper us in between? Aren't they swollen with the potential for altruism like spring buds that even now are gaining courage for their return?