Thursday, December 31

now stillness

The snow is steadily and unexpectedly sprinkling down outside, dusting the edges of fences and the dried brown gardens.  I awoke at 6am and saw that the sky was red.  About an hour later, I awoke again to see Tim standing in front of the window.  Upon my asking if he was watching the sunrise, he replied, "The snow is coming down quickly."  He enfolded himself back in bed while I roused myself up in the dark house to the sounds of silent snowfall, dreaming dogs, and rustles from the guest room.  I made a cup of chamomile tea and went and started wednesday (my volvo v70.) Somer put her accordion and bags in the back, and we quietly drove to the train station.  Oh, the complex sleep-deprivedness of early morning goodbyes that have been preceded by a late night stay-up filled with talking, backgammon, and lemon-ginger tea.  She disappeared into the station, melting into the dark coats of strangers.  I drove back home slowly behind terrified drivers who were doing 15mph over the muslin-thick snow on the roads.  I thought I would come back home and crawl into bed; I, who need 10 hours sleep to live a sane and capable life.  Instead, I am working my slow way, mouthful by chewy mouthful, through a bowl of cereals, and am considering finishing the movie we started 3 nights ago, although it's 9am.  I know it's New Year's Eve Day.  I have no big plans tonight.  Last year at this time I was at Kripalu, listening to chants and sitting in the sauna, walking the labyrinth in snow and getting lost in the woods when I hiked.  Tonight I think I'll go to bed early.  I think I'll take the accumulation of the past four late nights and say, "That was my end of year celebration: That was enough for me."  All the candles lit, tea sipped, chocolate cracked off and nibbled, all the garlic minced and cheese crumbled, miles walked, treasures thrifted, all the verbal lineage and conversational entanglements.  That sadness that comes when a friend who was visiting, leaves. Finding the balance again, the return to normalcy, to my rhythm.  Tonight is another full moon, but I think it will be hidden by clouds.  Tomorrow I'll wake at dawn to collect the first sunrise.  I'll see if the snow is "coming down quickly."  I'll sigh at the sorrow and wonderful-ness of it all, and slowly start my hundred turnings intended to spin me, eventually, into my studio.  I'll gather all the little tendrils of the past few busy weeks and draw them in, turning them into roots inside, and be nourished.