At the moment, citizens of Little Macondo have no reason to ask where the snows of yesteryear have gone. The snow, my friends has returned with a vengeance. Yesterday, snowflakes nearly a large as popped corn poured from the sky for six hours to cloak the entire village in glittery white. At my house, we spent part of the time feeding voracious wood stove, Morsolino, our main source of warmth. In between trips to the wood pile, we read, drank tea, deplored the shamefully bad articles in Newsweek and praised the excellence of the writing in The New Yorker and Harper’s.
Being snowbound is a chance to be more aware of details we fail to notice unless we slow our pace–the way the setting sun suffuses grey clouds with a subtle lavender wash, the raucous cries of the blue jay in the snowy woods, the muted song of the creek behind our house. What we do on snowy days is to match our pace to that of the snowfall. We move go about our business steadily. We read and read–Orlando Figes on the dark days of Stalin’s reign of terror, a lovely article by Jonathan Rosen on the poet Milton, Trailhead, a perfect story by E. O. Wilson and we find delicious treats on the net, for example,