Isn't it funny how quiet and still a snowy morning can be?
This quiet, the expectant silence waiting for the sleep that winter will bring...this I seek in my heart and mind. For the first time in perhaps ever, at least since I was a child, I look forward to the methodical pace of winter. Wood hauled in, ashes hauled out. Plow snow, shovel snow. Play in snow. Sleigh ride. Hunker down. Rest. Sew. Read. Snuggle my boys and savour savour this precious window in their childhood. For if there is one age I remember, and one season, it is the excitement of snow and decorating cookies and making cinnamon buns and waiting for the bus to drop off my brothers so we could eat our homemade treats that we had made for them. And I do remember the quiet. I played with my not-a-barbie doll in a cardboard box that I had made into a doll house and the dramas of her glamorous life were acted out in my mind where only I could hear. That Christmas Santa delivered a doll house, a real house, for my not-a-barbie and I don't believe there's been a gift so special since. The wall paper in her bathroom matched the wall paper in ours, her bedroom carpet the white plush shag of our discarded bathroom mat. She was like a movie star.
There are no more jobs calling me outside. Every year my interest in the garden wanes before I have completed all my jobs and now there is snow on the ground and I can give myself permission to focus my attention indoors. Rooms that need cleaned top to bottom and things that need sorted and tidied and oh so many things to sew.
Quiet. The quiet pace of our lives slows still more for this season. But my boys will continue to grow. I will tire of the repetition of my daily routine by February and I will drag myself to spring with gritted teeth and big plans for the yard. This I know. This year I enter winter without dreading the length and severity of it. I know that we will make it through. We will be productive, in our way, and we will greet spring with the joy that we now welcome winter. I am ready. Bring it.