Snow

We had our first snowfall the other day, and here in my section of the Beaver State that may just be all we get; a skiff; a smattering; a modicum; a spattering; a sprinkling. I think you get the idea.

And you know what? I'm perfectly happy with that!

It's not that I hate snow, on the contrary; it's just that snow is cold and wet and slippery and slushy and messy and...well, you get the idea.

I've lived in the high desert of Colorado where the snow can fall as late as mid June; where the mountain roads have to be cut out in early summer so they can be used; where the ground doesn't thaw from September to June, maybe even July.

I've lived beside the Wasatch Mountains where at 5000ft you can get 10 inches of snow in an afternoon.

I've lived beside Lake Erie where the lake effect can dump over a foot of snow during the night, closing roads and schools and making for some incredible snowman snow.

No, I actually love snow; from indoors.

There is nothing on earth cozier than a snow day, in front of a crackling fire with a good book and a mug of hot chocolate steaming away the drafts.
As I look out the window and see the freshly fallen snow, no footprints, no mud showing through, no scars on the landscape; I am at peace. There is a calm that descends on the world that cannot be described; earth is resplendent in her winter finery.

Then the children bundle up and away they go; trudging through the drifts, making trails and hiding spots; laughing and playing; the air sparkling and crackling with their excitement.
Red noses and frozen fingers and toes mark the day; in and out; warm and cold.
Then, finally, they are spent; the excitement having burned itself into a slow simmer.

I look out again, and the fresh virgin snow is gone; all I see are scars, deep and vivid in the late afternoon light; footprints, piles, trails, grassy bald spots; all part of the scene; all part of the lingering chaos.
However, my mother's heart steps in and tears sting my eyes; this scene is a scene of joy, happiness, and unbridled excitement.
Happy children making joyful noise created this chaos and I look with new eyes; a masterpiece before my eyes and my little Vermeer's snuggled all around me now; blankets, books and hot cocoa at the ready.

Yes, I love snow; from indoors.

The Slow Lane

I had to go and buy a baby gift for a baby shower; I also had offered to go to the "Duck" store (Oregon Duck's for those of you who don't know), because the "theme" of the shower is "Oregon Duck's" and my friend needed some "stuff" for the top of the cake. To accomplish these goals, I had to go to...the mall.

Those of you who know me well, know that I abhor the mall; too many people, too many noises, too much consumerism.
So I did what I had to do, made a couple of other stops and headed home.

I hadn't realized until I was "leaving town" that I had been anxious and agitated; it wasn't something I'd noticed or even felt; until I was leaving the city behind.

I turned on to the country lane that headed out of town, and my tension literally lifted; I felt softer somehow; lighter.
As I traveled on, the flicker of sunlight through the trees seemed to be beating the tension out of my mind and out of my heart, one filtering branch at a time.
Each winding curve pulling me further and further away from the organized chaos; lulling me back into myself, where I could think and breathe once again; the whir of the tires on the blacktop coaxing me back from my self-induced coma.

Crossing the river, the water seemed to carry my troubles oceanward; swiftly and steadily soothing my visual senses, harassed by the concrete jungle.
I turned onto our gravel road, safely home again, healed from the hustle and bustle of city madness; I reminisced about another gravel road, and a dear friend I had to leave behind in one of the many places I've been privileged to live in.

My friend would tease me, because of my love for dirt roads; not the "off road" kind of dirt road, but the "way out in the toolies" kind of dirt road; you know, with battered and weather beaten mailboxes and quail skittering ahead.
"Dirt roads are dusty" she'd say, and I knew that well enough; but dirt roads also mean solitude, serenity and a removal from civilization; peaceful places are usually at the end of a dirt road.

It's a slow life, living on a dirt road; a life measured by the season's, not the sales; by the rising and setting of the sun, not the alarm clock; by the heart, and the heart alone; a life I treasure one day at a time.