Outside my apartment, the snow is mixing with rain or sleet or freezing rain. I don’t know. It is crazy precipitation out there. I have a delay going into work and am spending my “free” hours in my yoga pants, watching TV with the children, doing laundry, drinking coffee. I’ve always felt the snow gives the world a damp hush, and have never been sure if it is melancholy or comforting.
As the soft snow changes over, an icy crackle meets my windows.
Without looking up, I hear a behemoth snow plow trundle down the street and imagine its blade sparking against the pavement beneath the thick crust of snow and ice.
Memories and thoughts flicker and turn in my mind like so many snowflakes.
Should I write about excessive use of TV during a snow day?
Should I write a poem about the weather?
Should I write about the cocktail I invented by mixing pear infused vodka with ginger beer?
Should I write about all of the psychic space taken up in my head with horror stories from work?
Should I grab my Pema Chodron and try to find some peace?
Should I write about love long lost? Or should I post a photo of a messy corner of my house?
The thoughts come and go, and part of me wonders what the difference is between insanity and inspiration. I could write about all of those things, but mostly, I just want to sit here, with you, on this winter day, as the snow turns to ice and rain and back again.