Slow Time in Winter

I look forward to the dark days of winter. Jammies are on by 5pm, work is done, and by 8pm I curl up in  my bed, guilt free, with a book in my hands and my dog, Lily, snuggled up against my feet. It is my time to rebuild and learn and rest. By 5am I am up and writing, watching the sky slowly turn pink and crimson, the birds dive-bombing each other at the feeder, the woodpeckers hanging upside down on the suet. 

Coffee or tea, depending upon how indulgent I feel, an early morning walk with Lily, work on Juan's and my business, then perhaps an outing on skis or snowshoes or - if the days have been cold enough and the snows light - a Hans-Christian-Andersen-like ice skate down a lake under the bright, crisp skies of winter.

Winter is why Juan and I live in Montana - that and the wilderness and lack of people. Winter light is poetic - it's hues of grey, pink, and purple addicting to watch. The air tastes good at minus 20 and moving one's body through deep cold clarifies so many layers of thought. I love snowshoeing over drifts which conceal my favorite huckleberry patches, knowing that in eight months time I'll be in a tank top, hunkered down amongst their interlacing red branches gathering a bounty of tiny blue that tastes like granite and smells like cold alpine nights.

But for now, I rest in winter's enforced calm, happy the garden's asleep and the only required outside chore is hauling in wood from the shed to keep the wood stove going. 

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You can read my past posts at www.ihiketowrite.blogspot.com 
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