We finally got our snow—a thin white fluff tucked into tree branches and piling up on stretches of grass and sidewalks. Nothing, of course, like those studly storms in the Midwest—the kids barely remember them from their childhood; all Lilly can remember was that it was cold and miserable. But, here, this morning, it is quiet and soft as the day gets lighter and lighter—changing from black to grey to white and blue. The air is nice and crisp and at 8:15 a.m. doors are just starting to creep and snap around here. I hear a few heavy footsteps, the shower turn on, the sound of teakettle as it lets me know it is ready for a round of tea and cocoa. A snow day is not nearly as exciting I suppose when there isn’t school to miss. Lucy is already on winter break and Stuart and Lilly have other schedules. It is only me who is calling in “late” to work and even I don’t actually have to be there. Instead, the snow has just made it slow and quiet. We ponder whether we want to get bundled up and go for a walk—I seem to be the main driving force for getting out and experiencing a winter stroll before the little neighborhood kids are up destroying the serenity and the great expanses of brilliant white.
I click away on the laptop from a corner of the couch and Stuart has settled in the big chair with his book. Last night I noticed that with a full house, there are about a half dozen splay-backed books draped over couch arms and settled across the coffee table and the ottoman. Five winter reading people results in at least 7 or 8 books around the house—laid aside for a snack or visit and picked up repeatedly throughout the day whenever the mood strikes.
We are nearly upon the solstice—I feel it—it moves through me thick and slow like cold syrup. The days barely get started and they are over, I wake in the dark and it seems only hours later that it is dark again. We vacillate between feeling stuck and trapped and feeling calm and cozy. Even the long walks in the rain or fog or mist do not totally lift the spirits but the alternative is unbearable. And now the snow has come to remind us that we are, in fact, in the middle of winter—the great frosty midpoint of scarves and boots and blankets.
I have always been a worshiper of seasons—not one season in particular, but giving in to the constant change; embracing the activities and extremes that each season brings. Nothing is more temporary than weather—nothing more constantly changing than the seasons so it seems that if nothing else, truly living means simply giving in to the wonders of each transpiring season. So here we are on a silver morning, with hot tea and cocoa, bundled in sweaters and moving slowly. Even with the beckoning snow, it takes a great deal of effort to crawl out from under warm covers and step into the outside world. We settle against each other and move from the kitchen to the living room to the bathroom and even when we do get out and about, the thoughts of getting back to the hearth are always at hand. I imagine the day will come when I’ll spend the solstice alone, without a houseful (I am well aware that I have reached my mid-point too, just as the year has reached its own), but for now I feel the presence of family, of clan, and try to figure out which of the splay-backed books is mine.
Snow Day Part Two
It is nearly sunset and the house suddenly empties. Everyone has headed off and I take advantage of the break in bodies to do a little cleaning—folding blankets, swapping sheets, throwing a load in the wash, vacuuming both the upstairs and the down and giving the well-walked kitchen floor a good scrubbing with a little Mr. Clean. About 45 minutes of efficient cleaning and the house feels fresh again. I start the dishwasher for the upteenth time in the past couple days. I really can’t image what large families did before electric dishwashers!
The cookie jars are empty and there is trash and recycling to go out—2 jugs of milk and 3 cartons of eggnog. As I’m straightening I also notice both candy dishes are empty—that’s a whole batch of fudge and I don’t even know how much other candy. Amazing.
We still have plenty of snow and there is a rumor of more to come. This is quite unusual for us to have this kind of wintry weather on the valley floor. Rain and flog, yes, but snow, ice and cold, no. We had a time of it trying to scrummage up boots, gloves, hats and warm clothes for everyone when we went out to play in the snow this morning. We just don’t normally need that kind of snow gear here in the mild part of the Pacific Northwest. Lilly thought we looked pretty rag-tag as we traipsed out to see what the storm had left us.
It is quiet again. I take advantage of the chance to sit down in a dim house—tree lights twinkling—and feel a great wave of appreciation for the ordinary moments and for a warm house, plenty of soft places to sit and sleep, the ability to welcome whomever shows up on the doorstep—especially my kids and their friends. There is always more than enough and I love that I have been granted the opportunity to give of myself this way. All the hours of work, the budgeting, the stretching to find extra jobs and knowing that there has to be the flexibility to be available on days like today. It isn’t enough to provide as the sole support and wage earner for my world, I have to be emotionally and physically engaged as well! And yet the rewards are incredible—what an incredible gift!
I do not do New Year's resolutions--no lists of what I will or won't do or objectives to take me along a tidy path to an ultimate goal. Instead, many years ago, I started declaring a "theme" for the year. I know that I am not the only person who does something like this and it has been a fun way for me to focus in on things that matter to me. Some years are really tough and it is all I can do to come up with something very simple (there was the year my only theme was to try to do a better job at keeping the refrigerator cleaned out), and other years I feel a bit more ambitious. When I turned 30, I made up my mind that I would spend the year writing 30 hand-written letters. The other night while I was talking to my sister, Tricia, on the phone she asked me if I had come up with a focus for 2009 and I was so tickled and flattered that she remembered my game. "Why yes!" I said, "I have..."
