More of the Same
Still very firmly February.
Several snow squalls have moved over the mountain today, most of which I've watched with my feet quite comfortably propped atop pillows on my bed. I spend a lot of time in my bed in the winter.
At one point, we were under heavy cloud cover, so much that I had to turn the table lamp on in the late morning. The sun must have muscled its way through because it became so bright, so quickly that my husband remarked on it, from his post at the desk, at the same time I snapped my head around to the window. The snow was still coming down steadily, but it was as if someone turned bright overhead lights on, hundred watters, and lots of them. Wow doesn't easily slip from his tongue; he is not one to be impressed by mere gentle shifts in circumstance.
Then later, my daughter came to visit to use my computer, though I don't know why. She has a new one, not three months old. No matter, I was glad for the company, even if it was the wordless kind. Clack-clack-clack from the keys. Then the clack-clack stopped, and she was standing at the foot of my bed. "What is that?" I looked outside, or tried to. There could have been crisp, white sheets on all the windows. The wind had picked up, and the snow had continued, and all we could see was white. Not even swirling white, though I'm sure that it was. Just solid walls of white: no grass line, no outlines of trees, no horizon. White.
For all the snow, the wind has taken most of it from the fields opposite my current perspective. I'm back in the sitting room with yet another roast in the oven (this time, beef, not pork, and I'm doing my best with it, even though I won't let a smidge past my lips). A moment ago, the air could have been laced with gold, but now, another gust has blown through, and with it came more clouds, like old gray leather.
I desperately want, need springtime. Everything around me, even my roast, is in the waiting place. I am in the waiting place. I'm very weary.
Till later...
Several snow squalls have moved over the mountain today, most of which I've watched with my feet quite comfortably propped atop pillows on my bed. I spend a lot of time in my bed in the winter.
At one point, we were under heavy cloud cover, so much that I had to turn the table lamp on in the late morning. The sun must have muscled its way through because it became so bright, so quickly that my husband remarked on it, from his post at the desk, at the same time I snapped my head around to the window. The snow was still coming down steadily, but it was as if someone turned bright overhead lights on, hundred watters, and lots of them. Wow doesn't easily slip from his tongue; he is not one to be impressed by mere gentle shifts in circumstance.
Then later, my daughter came to visit to use my computer, though I don't know why. She has a new one, not three months old. No matter, I was glad for the company, even if it was the wordless kind. Clack-clack-clack from the keys. Then the clack-clack stopped, and she was standing at the foot of my bed. "What is that?" I looked outside, or tried to. There could have been crisp, white sheets on all the windows. The wind had picked up, and the snow had continued, and all we could see was white. Not even swirling white, though I'm sure that it was. Just solid walls of white: no grass line, no outlines of trees, no horizon. White.
For all the snow, the wind has taken most of it from the fields opposite my current perspective. I'm back in the sitting room with yet another roast in the oven (this time, beef, not pork, and I'm doing my best with it, even though I won't let a smidge past my lips). A moment ago, the air could have been laced with gold, but now, another gust has blown through, and with it came more clouds, like old gray leather.
I desperately want, need springtime. Everything around me, even my roast, is in the waiting place. I am in the waiting place. I'm very weary.
Till later...
Comments
I'm a porch sitter. From April through October, I'm in my rocker, watching the birds and the Amish buggies and the neighbor's horses. I'm watching the garden grow and allowing myself to be distracted by every little thing.
You're right. Waiting is easier when other forms of life are moving on just the same.