White borders outline every fence and tree branch outside. I’m sitting in the famous kitchen window, feet propped up on the sill while I sip my tea. Molasses cookies are baking next to me, and in a grace-filled moment from the universe, both of my children are asleep. My writing feels like the lover I’ve missed all week.
Amelia’s on mid-winter break from school this week, but museum visits and day-trips were replaced by long hours on the sofa with our softest blankets, and the worst spell of illness we’ve seen in years. It’s Day Nine for Amelia, and she conked out by noon. We haven’t left the apartment in days, and the last time we tried, I carried her most the way with one arm, pushing Lucy in the stroller with the other. I am thankful today to watch the snow from the warm, dry inside–to have no reason to get out. The slowing down helps me listen to the things my heart has been trying to tell me, to things glossed over with haste.
It’s easy to get sidetracked with my writing by an internal conversation about what I should be doing, instead of taking my girlfriend’s advice and giving space for what is in me to come out. So I’ve been tuning in–or fumbling to, at least–to hear what wants to emerge. This path is authentic, and I prefer it to plotting and posturing. I don’t have time for such games, though they glitter and entice.
The other thing I’m hearing is an opportunity to relinquish my expectations of my family, so I can be present in the moment. To embrace the snuggles and naps in front of endless hours of public television. There will be other times to run around, but this week my daughters just want me–to hold them, to paint with them, to play Tickle Monster and chase them through the apartment. I’m learning that I am happiest when I oblige.
The forecasters predict that the city may see ten inches before this storm passes. Bring it, I say. I’ve got my loves to keep me warm.
