I'm supposed to be up in the mountains with a friend right now, but another storm is making it's way in, and there will be four more inches of snow on the ground in the morning here in Denver, which means many more up in the mountains. We only have one car that's any good in the snow (I've been stuck several times in the Hyundai this year already, and the snow hasn't even been that bad). Leaving Eric and the girls without transportation--especially if I was late getting back--wasn't an option. I'm sorely disappointed. And also not unhappy puttering around my house in slippers, muttering to myself.
There is something about giving yourself over completely to the season. There is something to moving more slowly, and eating more. There is something to turning away from work, even when it's calling. There is something in the quiet. There is the bite at one's cheeks from being outside, the excuse to hide in flannel and fleece. There is napping, and avoiding. There is withdrawing and protecting. I mean all of these things in the best possible way. I'm not seeking meaning in any of it or trying to decipher. I'm just saying what is.
I pick the kids up soon, and will practice lying on the floor and letting them jump on me and cuddle me and tell me stories. I'll make dinner. I'll put my pajamas on very early. I'll sew a friend's childhood christmas stocking, worse for the moth's wear. I'll read.
And probably will do the same tomorrow.