I was once again restless tonight, not able to sit and read, pacing and thinking. As I walked to my window looking out onto the porch, I noticed that it was still snowing heavily. It was at that point that I decided a late night visit to the porch was in order. I wrapped myself up in warm clothing, grabbed a glass of my favorite Borba wine and headed out into the weather.
Luckily, my porch is enclosed on three sides so not much snow had fallen near the chair where I sat with feet curled under me. The first thing I noticed was the silence. Not a sound, no cars, no voices, nothing. A most welcome silence. As I sipped my wine, I watched the snow fall like a sheer and shimmery white curtain.
I'd been complaining about the weather for days, along with everyone else. My mother tells me often that I was once a snow-child. Always the first one dressed and out into the weather. The first one down the hill on a sled. The one who always wanted to build the snowman. Always waiting for the first snowfall. As I sat there watching the snow, some of that child came back to me.
I recalled a conversation this week with a friend in a warmer climate. I told him I was jealous of his warm sun and proximity to a beach. His comment back was that he was jealous because he couldn't make snowballs to throw at anyone. A much lighter view of my complaining. I stood and walked to the edge of the porch. From my third floor I looked out over sleepy houses, bare trees softened by white powder and a tiny glimpse of the river sparkling in the distance. I closed my eyes and leaned forward enough to let the snow settle on my face.
All at once, I remembered what it felt like to have been that snow-child. As I sit here and write at 1:35am, I'm looking forward to my view from the porch in the daylight. Let it snow!