The temperature has dropped again and the windows have been alive with snow all morning. The house, though sturdy, creaks with shifting snow on shingles and howling wind on siding. I am tempted to hunt down every blanket in the house, pile them in front of the fireplace, crawl under the stack and lie there until Spring. But I have a toddler who turns on the music and asks me to dance. So I dance and become warm. Even though we could make our own music, hearing songs that are not our own remind me that we are blessed to have power, because some are without.
The morning is whittled away, equal parts spent chasing and hugging. I am glad all the appointments were yesterday and that nothing is so important that it can't wait for another day, even two. We make soup and hot chocolate, and I am thankful that some things taste better with a side of snow. I laugh when Audrey tells me "Good job, eat it," and claps when I finish my food.
The snow has stopped, but it blows across the ground like shifting sand: a moving landscape. It covers our resting garden, which after working so hard for us this summer, deserves the break. Having reconciled that I don't have to go outside, that I can hide under a pile of blankets if I so choose, the earth made new in shades of white doesn't seem so bad. Especially, with this creative little one by my side who makes being cooped up feel, well, less cooped up. For now, the blankets are safely at bay, tucked in the closet as I wait to see what Audrey comes up with next. Peanut butter etch-n-sketch, anyone?
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