The snow billows in the field, a real blizzard. We arrived last night after three days on the road with my mom, the children pushing me to the edge of madness. Our last hours driven in fog, thick rain, with temperatures about to drop. The children screamed profanities at each other, as I prayed for our safe return.
Home. Comfortable, easy, the space that I expand in. My silence owned here. Much lies ahead for this weekend, and this year, but this snow has my heart. Tiny birds flutter at the pinecone filled with peanut butter and bird seed that we hung on the porch in December. I watch them peck once, twice for seed, then lift. The sound of the wind bellows through this house as though we lived on a prairie and I wonder over its structure, the strength of it's bones. The roof began to leak last night and Josh had a bucket out with towels. Food on the table when for our return. Fire in the fireplace, the heart of the house. The dirt and dust of it all. The children's toys and stink bugs, the laundry and dishes and mess of a bed. All is well.
What is my hope for the new year?
To be tender and patient. To play. To go slow. To be outside in the quiet of the forest, mountains, woods. To make fires and sip tea in front of them. To make laughter and love. To miss the pine forest and the lake until I return. To wonder without answering. To listen.