If the accumulation on our deck rail is any indication, we received something like 2-3" of snow during the night. The trees are wearing it proudly, especially the evergreens for whom the flakes are like stunning accessories from Tiffany's, but also the barren-branched trees who hoard the drifts in their joints like pantries. Sitting snuggly inside by the fire as the gray of morning brightens, I am grateful for the scraping sound outside of the young men who have arrived early to clear the sidewalks, driveways and road. The forecast anticipates a cold day with a high barely into the 20's and windchills in the low single digits. Tonight will be even colder.
But never mind. I haven't a thing I need to do today that requires turning the ignition. There is a sermon to finish and holiday decorations to store. There is miscellaneous housework to accomplish and a dinner to prepare together. Barrington will need some entertaining -- especially with walks cut short -- and there are some phone calls to make.
And there are the books. I'm not sure why it is, but my "to read" pile and list seem to loom each year this time of year like a daunting Mt. Everest, alluringly appealing but impossible to climb. It could be that publishers are forceful during the holidays about seducing my attention, or it could be the fruit of holiday conversations. It could have to do with winter's more interior appeal, when books have been perennial hibernation companions.
Whatever, I am offering a silent prayer of thanks for the unscheduled hours ahead of me and the wintery air around me, the warm fire in front of me and the exhilarating opportunity to take a few indulgent steps up that literary mountain.
But never mind. I haven't a thing I need to do today that requires turning the ignition. There is a sermon to finish and holiday decorations to store. There is miscellaneous housework to accomplish and a dinner to prepare together. Barrington will need some entertaining -- especially with walks cut short -- and there are some phone calls to make.
And there are the books. I'm not sure why it is, but my "to read" pile and list seem to loom each year this time of year like a daunting Mt. Everest, alluringly appealing but impossible to climb. It could be that publishers are forceful during the holidays about seducing my attention, or it could be the fruit of holiday conversations. It could have to do with winter's more interior appeal, when books have been perennial hibernation companions.
Whatever, I am offering a silent prayer of thanks for the unscheduled hours ahead of me and the wintery air around me, the warm fire in front of me and the exhilarating opportunity to take a few indulgent steps up that literary mountain.
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