Up on the mountain, the wind is announcing the day before the sun even has a chance to make its presence known. Sitting here with the fire dancing, lap blanket tucked under my feet, I’d be remiss if I didn’t pause for one moment and just snuggle into the moment. This is not the beginning of an extraordinary day – which is what makes it so remarkable. At some point, I’ll make it into town, run some errands, shiver my way back home and read. Drink some tea. Knit a bit. Listen to music. Listen to the wind. Pick up a message here and there about the deliciousness of being in the moment. Marvel at how flexible the trees are as the bend to the will of nature without snapping in two.
We won’t be getting up here too often this winter and I will miss the opportunity to just hop in the car and be here. Though the house still has that new house smell, it already has the feeling of being lived-in, of knowing its role as an escape and a womb, protecting and holding me safe. And though I have always thought of myself as one who would be happiest by the water, I’ve already learned that the mountains echo a welcome that is equally compelling. Maybe it’s just the peace that comes from being placed in the middle of all that is so much bigger than me, A way to remember that we are a part of something so much bigger, a stage whisper demanding that we pay attention. Our days, these accumulations of seconds strung together and passing with such speed they are easily disregarded. I don’t want to miss a thing, primarily because I fear I miss so much.
So before the morning breaks, I watch and listen and breathe in – the feeling of warmth, the smell of hot coffee, the music of the wind. The next moments will come, for they are more determined than anything else I’ve ever known. And I can’t stop them. But I can – and I will – dissolve into right now.