White

"The meadows and far-sheeted streams
Lie still without a sound;
Like some soft minister of dreams
The snow-fall hoods me round;
In wood and water, earth and air,
A silence everywhere."

Excerpted from the song "Snow," by Loreena McKennet

Snow is falling steadily, determinedly, boldly. It's been falling for the past 48 hours or more. It's made our world soft and fluffy. It's made our world quiet. It's made our world insanely beautiful. I feel like I'm living a Robert Frost poem. I love it.

Funny. December is the darkest month with the shortest days of the year and I have come to find that it is my favorite month. Especially when it snows.

Esther and Isla love the snow too. Isla stood on the kitchen bench this morning and just stared quietly out the window at the floating flakes. Esther is digging holes, making angels and commenting on the lovely, soft silence.

She's at her friends house now. I escorted her down there through the meadow and down the steep hill that leads to their house. I was on skis and she walked, pulling her sled behind her. Once we got to the hill she got into the sled and let me pull her. The village below, through the falling snow, looked fake. Like a picture book.

I've skied up the road twice in the past two days. The snow is almost too deep to navigate in the meadows, but the roads are perfect. That is until the maintenance guys show up with their truck full of dirt and sand. Then all is ruined.

Until another hour or two later when another fresh coat of powdery bliss is applied. Vermont, like this, is like no other place. I'm feeling lucky and grateful again. Oprah would be proud.

wise old owl pinata

A few snippets from Esther's 7th birthday party. It's safe to say, we've brought another snow lover into the world.
Then end of a perfect birthday.
The guests are here.
Kamikaze Isla
After all the candy had been beaten out of the poor wise owl.
Enjoying a moment of undisturbed owlness.
Making the final touches.

Seven

Esther's turning 7 this week. Trying to explain how this makes me feel without resorting to a long string of cliches (even that is a cliche) is pretty challenging.

To think that I spawned this little creature, so fat and jowly, and oh my goodness all that hair, after enduring only 9 solid months of sheer misery is pretty cool.

That's it? That's all I can come up with: pretty cool?

Sometimes when she's not looking, I examine her face; scrutinizing, searching for something familiar. I often come up empty.

Where did she come from? Who is she? Is that my my mother in there? Her cousin Joanna? The only part of her I recognize is her nose. Her nose--the way it slopes down her face like an Olympic ski jump-- now that I can claim. Oh, and her tendency towards impatience and irritability? Yeah. I guess I recognize that as well.

The rest of it seems to be all hers. And it all suits her, really.
She's her own girl, that Esther. Happy Birthday, Possum.

New posts over at Momformation, here and here.