The present moment

Cranking radiator to my left, dull light coming in the window over my right shoulder. Listening to the weather on the radio this morning I realized I won’t see the sun for five days. The sky is low and grey. A white blanket has been tossed over New England. Staring out the kitchen window at the gloom, I feel claustrophobic. There’s a ceiling in the natural world.

People travel to Florida, the Caribbean, Arizona and California to get some relief from the cold of east coast winters. They want to be warm. But do they also travel to see the sky? Night sky with stars, pink sky with sunrise, deep blue sky with yellow sun? I like to look up and know I am seeing so far up that it is beyond any knowing.

Here in New England we turn our collars up against the cold. I hunch my shoulders and watch the ground as I walk. It is a mine field of ice under soft snow, or slippery mud just above frozen ground. It can be treacherous. I fell hard last week when my playful dog ran into me.

Where’s the bright side? The turning of winter into spring. The tiniest shifts in light. The smell in the air and the song of a bird I haven’t heard since fall. I sense the migration has begun. This time from south to north.

A beam of light falls in the front hall against a wall that only sees direct light at this time of year. I would miss winter. The radio reports a storm coming. I drive Eliza to the airport hoping the flakes will hold off. I don’t trust those deicing machines. Blessedly the storm begins as she heads west. Winter keeps you on your toes.