We have taken advantage of the long weekend and have shot up to rural Vermont with some friends for a weekend of skiing. I say skiing with some hesitancy there, as I have not left the house since we arrived two days ago, but instead have been spending my time enjoying the glistening carpet of snow that covers everything with the nerve to be outside. I have never seen snow like this before and the triangular piles on top of every fence post just look like tiny wild snowmen to me. Outside, on a deck that we can’t access for the three feet of snow blocking the door, I can just see the tip of what looks like a vacuum cleaner that someone left outside. There is so much snow that it spills from the second story porches onto the ground until you cannot tell where one floor ends and the next begins.
This seems like a place where winter means waiting; it is a long deep breath where you must force yourself to rest. To do anything else, to fight through these insurmountable acres of snow, is unnatural.
There is a horse on the property, which I can see from the bedroom window, and I have risen from my seat every few hours to see if she has dared to stamp out more of the snow from her paddock, but she does not seem to want to move far from the comfort of roof and trough. I can empathize with this, as I have barely moved myself and have not been too sorry for the vertigo that pushes skiing out of my reach. I have been happy enough to sit in the farmhouse and admire the filet crochet curtains, the snowshoes on the walls, the hanging quilts that make you reach out and draw a finger along the curled white lines of the quilting. There are no fewer than four stuffed deer heads mounted low on the walls, which disturbed when we first arrived, but are now beginning to feel like old friends. With everyone out of the house and over at the mountain, there is a silence here that is deep and restful.
I have been taking care of writing obligations with deadlines on them, which is work that does not fill me with much joy. I have been pushing through so that I can get back to reading and editing and writing creatively, which has been difficult to find time for in the last month. A frustrating state of affairs. The deadlines have been met now, which means the next forty-eight hours are entirely mine to remind myself how to do the things that I love best to do. With the peace of the last two days, my brain is recharged and I am ready to go. I don’t think I will want to go home.