11/19/2006: "How do you mend..."
Friday night I went on a moon lit cross country skiing adventure with Maren. We wore head lamps and glided, all alone, through the wooded trails. It was silent with the ambient light of the snow from the moon; it felt…transcendent.
On Saturday I went downhill skiing at Eagle Crest for opening day. The friend I was supposed to go with couldn't get her gear in time and so I had to yell the dreaded "SINGLE" each time I got in the lift line!
Then I pulled a muscle in my calf...not on the slopes but afterwards, trying to extricate my foot from my ski boot!
Today we had another snow storm pass through, 24 additional inches and counting; I visited neighbors, cleaned my house, put up white twinkle lights, and watched the neighborhood out my window.
There’s this new espresso stand that opened up right across the street from my house in the parking lot of the Douglas Depot. It’s a drive through, but it seems to get mostly foot traffic. customers visited while their dogs played in the snow, women pulled little kids on sleds, people slid up on cross country skis to get in line…it was all very Rockwellian.
The Sunday life drawing session was canceled due to the weather so a friend and I trudged through the snow to eat at the Island Pub instead (which was open despite the storm). Freshly inspired by thoughtful conversation, I started a new painting as soon as I got home. It's not very good but it's a start and I feel…hopeful.
Plus, my house is clean and cozy and still smells like the peach cobbler I baked last night. Soon I'll go to sleep on the couch where I can continue to watch the snow fall; I don't think I'll have a single bad dream...just a parade of white and deep deep sleep. It's been awhile.
OUT of the bosom of the Air
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent, and soft, and slow
Descends the snow.
Even as our cloudy fancies take
Suddenly shape in some divine expression,
Even as the troubled heart doth make
In the white countenance confession
The troubled sky reveals
The grief it feels.
This is the poem of the air,
Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
This is the secret of despair,
Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
Now whispered and revealed
To wood and field.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow