Tabula Rasa

Is that what I mean to say? Clean slate? That's what the land looks like today out back. Everything clear, no leaves on the trees, no color to the grass, a sugaring of snow everywhere, frigid weather, all in abeyance, waiting, patient, letting the season be what it is which is very fitting for the first of the year. And I, tuckered out from the holidays and curious about what's next, am one with this feeling. Good to be bundled up in flannel and fleece, good to take a little time to read, good to slow down, let go, see with new eyes, let be.

I woke early this morning, hardly a sound in the house save for the muffled ticking of clocks and the warm phantom breath of the forced air furnace. The Christmas tree still glows in the living room, a whole chunk of lights out from Sofia's punch bagging of the ornaments. The back window thermometer read 6 below zero, but I don't buy it for a moment. Maybe 7 above. Maybe. It's frigid, but let's be factual. I stoked a fire which took quickly with the cold drawing it up the flue and even the sight of the orange glow warmed the kitchen. The coffee pot gargled to life, the cats feasted, the morning began. Later would come some warm water and corn scratch for the geese and then a hike up our hill; for the moment, though, I was content being in the beginnings of the morning, nothing fancy, Richard still in bed, no pressing anything, just me, here, now.