Reluctance to leave the soft envelope of bed this winter morning, reluctance. It’s where the heat is, after all. But the whirring and humming and clunking of the mind (reliable engine) harasses the body out of rebellion and into obedience.
And for good reason: there is wood to be chopped, snow to be shoveled, water to be boiled. There are dishes to wash, floors to mop, plans to be drawn. There are walls to be built and torn down, ragged roads to salt and plow. There are the needs of children, the old, the sick and disabled, the animals we keep. There are the ceaseless demands of an entire world, all the things of man, waiting, waiting.
But then there is this winter morning, and the spell of first light, and everything white and silver-gray speckled with russet and evergreen, and the yellow glow of lamps in the windows of houses, and the owl in the tree who thinks I don’t notice him.
And with the slow symmetry of this snow falling, so neatly, so gently, how can I do anything but stand and stare?
How can I do anything except surrender everything, put down my sack of worldly accomplishments, and turn my face up to the sky, grateful to have known such a morning.