I've just finished catching up on blogs from my friends out east. They send out these messages of freezing days, deep snow, stalled tractors, kids home--either bundled and in the snow, or sorting legos, or vomiting.
Though I would have loved a little more snow here, I can't say I'm sorry at this moment to be thinking of the fog that socked us in again this morning, the grey chill that settled over me as I bought coffee at the Kingston ferry, or the walk up the orchard hill after breakfast, mist clinging to my face and tree buds taut, just beginning to sing spring.
I love the black-capped chickadees that hop about my back porch. I even love the shimmering stellar jays, though they bully the wee birds that vie for a chance at the feeder.
I just finished a visit with Ru, my dear friend from back in college--and more specifically on this blog, the artist I love so much who has been knitting a long line down to the ocean, a link between the finite and the eternal. How refreshing to talk art and writing with her, to confess again our weakness that makes us wish for the practical job that pays; for the easily-achieved, for the affirmation of success. How lovely to see her new paintings that embrace the imagination and the fabulous and the wonder of bright color and birds alighting on heads--an owl snuggled in a pocket! After a short, sweet visit, I dropped her off at the ferry early this afternoon, and she disappeared into the grey sky, over the iron-grey water all the way back to Bellingham and almost-Canada.
Then it was tutoring and friends and children coming back from school and a well-deserved cup of tea with my sister followed by some research on Anne Frank, which made me sad and thoughtful. And then dinner and a bit of chocolate for the girls. . .and now Martin home.
Which means I have no great conclusions to draw, no essay to pull full-circle, nothing to cap off, because I'm off to sit with my husband and eat a little more kale-linguica soup and then chocolate and tea.
My dear ones in the snow, my thoughts are with you, warming you, sorting legos with you, pushing the tractor up the hill with you.
xoxo
Though I would have loved a little more snow here, I can't say I'm sorry at this moment to be thinking of the fog that socked us in again this morning, the grey chill that settled over me as I bought coffee at the Kingston ferry, or the walk up the orchard hill after breakfast, mist clinging to my face and tree buds taut, just beginning to sing spring.
I love the black-capped chickadees that hop about my back porch. I even love the shimmering stellar jays, though they bully the wee birds that vie for a chance at the feeder.
I just finished a visit with Ru, my dear friend from back in college--and more specifically on this blog, the artist I love so much who has been knitting a long line down to the ocean, a link between the finite and the eternal. How refreshing to talk art and writing with her, to confess again our weakness that makes us wish for the practical job that pays; for the easily-achieved, for the affirmation of success. How lovely to see her new paintings that embrace the imagination and the fabulous and the wonder of bright color and birds alighting on heads--an owl snuggled in a pocket! After a short, sweet visit, I dropped her off at the ferry early this afternoon, and she disappeared into the grey sky, over the iron-grey water all the way back to Bellingham and almost-Canada.
Then it was tutoring and friends and children coming back from school and a well-deserved cup of tea with my sister followed by some research on Anne Frank, which made me sad and thoughtful. And then dinner and a bit of chocolate for the girls. . .and now Martin home.
Which means I have no great conclusions to draw, no essay to pull full-circle, nothing to cap off, because I'm off to sit with my husband and eat a little more kale-linguica soup and then chocolate and tea.
My dear ones in the snow, my thoughts are with you, warming you, sorting legos with you, pushing the tractor up the hill with you.
xoxo
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