So we have been snowed into very pleasant surroundings. Each morning I make tea and fill the gigantic bathtub, drop some essential oils in it, and soak and sip tea. These past two mornings, this is what I look out at:
I relish every moment, with a deep gratitude for how lucky I am. Though I'm aware of a residual guilt, though I have done nothing wrong. It's the sheer selfishness of my enjoyment--because of early conditioning, the very word 'selfish' connoted imminent fire and destruction, well deserved. Because I am not the fastest with a clue, it took me over fifty years to comprehend the difference between the selfishness that robs others, or glories in others' hurt, and the selfishness that does no harm.
Our first day here, the snow all melted in a crashing thunderstorm. We stayed in the cabin below the main house for the duration, playing with the cats as a fire leaped in the fireplace. I did some yoga while thunder and rain poured all around.
Yesterday I woke to snow. As well as today. We walked out yesterday, trying to get the feel for walking in it. Here I am in the winter coat I've owned for a number of years, but till now it's lived in my closet, only coming out when I travel back east:
I took a video of today's snow, which I won't put up as Dreamwidth has a truly awful media platform--it's awkward and time consuming to upload photos, and one is limited to a small amount of bandwidth to store them. I think a single vid would max me out--and of course snowfall would be no delight and wonder to most of North America, save my corner.
So I'll put up a picture instead:
is made beautiful by a lacy coating of pure white shading subtly to blue here and gold there. The landscape transforms, familiar landmarks changing or vanishing entirely. I can't tell where the road bends. The snow makes a subtle squidgy sound underfoot, not wet and mushy as it did yesterday.
Leading to another observation: it is always changing. There is no still like the photos: clumps drop continually out of trees, or shower down. The temperature rises and the snow changes shape, or turns to water, creating myriad little streams. Or, during the night, it turns to ice--which is why we haven't gone anywhere. None of us want to attempt mountain roads if there is ice.
So . . . back to writing projects, reading, and slowly watching, and loving the endgame of The Story of Minglan
, which is simply phenomenal.