Posts Tagged ‘snow’

Here’s my last week:

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I talked to a friend today who lives in northern Canada. She had just gotten back from a from a friend’s from dinner. The thing was that she left six days ago. There’s a term for it, I’m told, “storm-stayed.” During dinner, the snow came and there she had to stay for almost an entire week.

She told me the first two days were torture, worrying about all the unfinished business.

But then something opened. She released.

I can’t put myself there, scanning someone else’s bookshelf, watching more and more snow fall, feeling like you over-stayed a welcome yesterday, petting the cat, petting the cat, sneezing.

I thought about it all day, on my bike ride, at work. Six days.

What about work? The dishes in the sink? The book I am supposed to finish?

Then I remembered something she said, “At some point you just have to surrender.”

The the last four days, she said, were heaven. “Cold air in my lungs, warmth against my skin.”

And I try and I breathe and when it all comes rushing in, I just keep repeating under my breath, “Snow-stayed. Snow-stayed.”

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sleep to snow.

She always woke at rain. She loved the energy of it. “Thunder always does what it does,” she would say. “Lightning too, without fail.” She listened to single drops as the  sound delicately plunks down each of her vertebrae.

She stays asleep though, at snow. God’s temperament changes as it chills.

Soon she will awake to wrap covers around bare legs, feel warmth against her skin, cold air in her lungs, as she will peek through the steam above her teacup. “It’s earl grey,” I will tell her. She will sip and scold me for using too much sugar.

The earth’s edges are soft now under the blanket, outside and in, and I watch the snow fall somber. In this moment, the utterly simple becomes the most profound.

I always use too much sugar in winter.

In summer too, for that matter.

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