On a cold Tuesday morning, the snowflakes fall from the dimly lit sky barely contrasting to the overnight white cover on the ground. I hear the ash crackling in the wood stove. Despite my denial, somehow we crossed the threshold of August 1st but looked around as we stepped over only to find ourselves in mid-November.
It is a time for lists, just like it should have been during those now missing-in-action months that I somehow, cannot account for. Each moment needs to count because eventually some things are not even possible and they become what they are.
Daylight is rare and sunshine even more so. November impersonating almost an Atomic Age bomb shelter. The great deception is that what there is now becomes longed for and perceptively wasted from where I stand in 60 to 90 days.
With surrender comes release. Once the admission of defeat happens, the season opens to its warmer charms. A season to cook, to care for all inside that we could not have given attention to, and to prepare for the outside days.
Then, when I really gain incite, and go outside to live a day in the clean, quiet, beauty that winter can be, it becomes evident that this can be just as sweet as a walk in the middle of June. It is in realization, that causes me to think that just maybe I need to rethink most things. The flavors of beauty each come in their own time and on their terms. The resistance to it being an exercise in futility that I for one, never seem to learn from.
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