Snow has quietly covered our corner of the world again. Not much. About 6 inches or so. Enough that it required clearing before my husband could drive to his office.
So out we went—he with the snowblower, I with a giant broom—and we cleared. He slowly, methodically cleared one strip of snow after another. I carefully brushed snow from our vehicles, taking joy in each puffing sound as it landed at my feet. Then I moved on to shoveling the front steps and skimming the end of the driveway.
Somewhere in the middle of all that, I realized I was at peace. I didn’t mind the work I was doing. Because I had bundled up properly, I wasn’t even cold. I was doing what needed to be done. My husband was outside working with me. The kids were inside. No one was asking me for anything.
Once inside there would be breakfast to make, sons to tend to, things to be cleaned, and deadlines to meet.
Outside this morning there was nothing to worry about but the snow. That singular focus brought more freedom and peace than I ever would have imagined.
Rain is washing away our blanket of snow. Last week our landscape was smooth with light and shadow playing on the surface. Today it is patchy- wet grass mottled with white slosh in the dull of a gray sky.
Snow makes everything appear cleaner and tidier. Rain washes away debris and leaves a sheen. Yet somehow snow and rain together makes everything feel sludgy.
I am trying not to soak up the sludgy feeling. My mood tends to sponge off the weather and the moods of those around me. So I am practicing saying, “What’s mine is mine. What’s yours is yours.”
Today I wish to feel light, spacious, and heart-full. The weather may do as it wishes.
My grandmother always puts seed out for the birds (and nuts out for the squirrels). As far as I knew, it was just another way she takes care of the earth's creatures. She was a nurse and hospice volunteer for decades. Taking care of people and critters is just what she does.
A few years ago I hung a feeder from my deck and filled it with seed without much more thought than, "why not feed the birds?"
I didn't know then that I would become captivated. I didn't know that I would look out my kitchen window first thing every morning to see who was visiting.
I didn't know how many different colors, sizes, and shapes birds came in. I didn't know that I would keep a camera nearby to see how many varieties I could photograph.
I didn't know that these little feathered friends would make home feel a little homier and life a little more lively.
Now I know.