Sunday, November 25, 2012

hello, winter. i've been expecting you

And now it is winter. It arrived Thanksgiving night. I was sleeping, waking occasionally to the sound of a wind that slapped the house, rushed around it, even perhaps tried to get in. The National Weather Service had warned of wind and rain turning to snow, so I was not surprised when Friday arrived with the peace of snow-covered fields overlaid with swirling skirmishes, underlaid with covert ice. The contrast to Thanksgiving Day was stark. The sun had peeped through hazy clouds while I sat on the porch, swatting at flies, chatting with friends.

All day the wind blew from the northwest. It brought snow off and on, a total of seven or eight inches I guess, for it never really stops, just takes a break now and then, the wind eventually dieing down, the flakes floating lazily by, taking their time, more like those enjoying a journey than those intent upon a destination. Elliott darted out and back in twice before retiring to the laundry basket. Buster seemed slightly confused by it all, though God knows he’s seen plenty of winters. I scrambled to do that which is useless in the midst of blowing snow—sweeping it away from doors, shoveling through it—and eventually I died down, turned indoors, spent the day making candles. I drew the winter storm close around me, nestling into it as if it were a comfortable, sheltering old cloak.


I continue to read Recovering: A Journal by May Sarton. She often copies into the journal passages from books she is reading, and I am tempted to do the same.
To see a person for himself or herself, not for one’s feelings about them, requires wisdom, and I must assume that it is part of the ascension of true love beyond the initial passion and need. On the way there are frightful resentments and irritations caused by intrinsic differences of temperament and many a marriage or love affair bogs down as a result. How does one achieve perfect detachment? Partly perhaps by accepting the essence of a being for what it is, not wishing to change it, accepting.

Over the course of the week I made more than 100 candles, a half dozen spice bears, 14 spice cones, and one spice owl. There is so much wisdom I lack. If I were 17 again, I would know it all except that it can all be lost.