What Lies Within

We’ve had a beautiful winter so far. Snow began in late November and it remained cold enough for us
to enjoy a white Christmas. January’s temps were record-breakers with several weeks in continuous
sub-zero territory. We have blown into February riding some heat; a few days in the twenty degree
range. This, the first week in February, even wrapped up in wool, I have begun to feel a difference in
the warmth of the sun on my face. The weekend will dip below zero again, but that’s [ fine with me.
Making my nighttime check on animals I notice the Winter Moon overhead. Big and full, it casts blue
light across the snow. Living in the woods, we don’t have street lights and I’m used to walking in the
dark, so the large moon’s illumination feels special, magical even. Without the intrusion of light
pollution, the sky is inky black and full of stars. I tilt my head back and take deep breaths of the frigid
air. Something about the sharpness of the cold makes it seem to have texture: I can almost taste it when
I breathe in. Standing under the Winter Moon’s performance with its cast of stars makes me feel
unimportant but important. Small in the grand scheme but covered, protected, like I am part of
everything. I need this feeling right now.

February is the season of jars. We have been “shopping” from our basement freezers since harvest.
Each morning I send Paul there with the task of bringing up a jar of something; tomato sauce or
applesauce and all manners of pesto and rhubarb compotes. Often, tucked under his left elbow comes a
bulbous butternut squash or, if he has three hands, a silver pot of potatoes in a variety of size and color.
After we have emptied the jars making a meal they are given a good scrub and stacked on the dining
room table, waiting to be returned to their rightful box. I take odd, but great, delight in bringing the jars
clunking back to the basement. I take note of how many await next year’s harvest and open the freezers
to count how many full jars are left. I stand amongst the basementy cobwebs and calculate how many
months until we pull from the gardens once more so that I can give a detailed (read boring) dinner
report to Paul.

Each jar, rich with smell and brilliant color, reminds me of late summer. I’m transported back into our
steamy kitchen on a warm summer’s evening, stirring a big pot of sauce with a tall wooden spoon.
Cranking our Foley Food mill for all it’s worth until we have separated the sauce from seeds and skin.
Ladling hot tomato puree into clean jars until the counter is covered. Bringing the full bounty carefully
down the stairs stacking them into the freezers and standing in those eternal cobwebs, delighting in the
feeling of fullness. Filled with an ambiguous sense of security: we have pulled the wool over
someone’s eyes.

One morning I was pulling on wool socks when Paul yelled for me to come quick. I peg-legged it into
the kitchen, one sock on, one off, and he pointed out the window facing the sheep pastures. The sun
was squatting right in the middle of the window, creating a golden haze and as Paul gestured silently, I
leaned in and noticed sparkling silver confetti floating through the sunshine. We watched as the
sparkles, full of life, drifting this way and that, fell spinning in the cold breeze. We both knew that this
was but a rare moment of calculated perfect timing: one change would change everything. No time to
grab a camera or put on another sock but enough time to be present and observe magic.

Friday evening we received a call from our son Josh. He wondered what the plan was for Saturday
afternoon. We let him know that once we were home from working the youth orchestra in the morning, we were going to run dogs and then head to a nearby village to grab lunch at an old train station then
spend the bitterly cold afternoon browsing a couple of new antique/thrift stores. He asked if he might
join us, as his partner was going to be tied up. We tried, and failed, at masking our enthusiasm. When
the nest is empty and your youngest bird asks to fly in for a visit, there is a flutter.

We piled him into our truck and headed off on a Saturday adventure. We sat across from each other in
the warm train station and talked while eating sandwiches and sweet potato chips. We laughed together
in a comfortable, familiar rhythm. We all wandered the stores, pulling old holiday vinyl records from
wood crates and asking each other’s opinion on vintage T shirts. Driving home we came up over a rise
in the highway and the Worcester Mountain range rose up in front of us. The sky was becoming dusky
but the sun still lighting the way for any afternoon winter hikers at the top of the mountain. A sight, as
native Vermonters, we had seen many times, in many seasons. But there was something about coming
upon it, framed in the front windshield, that made us all stop talking and take notice, in a way that
maybe we never had before. A gift.

That evening we took a friend to a Murder Mystery play at a local church where we eat chicken pie
suppers in the fall. Our mail carrier Zena was part of the production and had stopped me one afternoon
asking if I was going to buy tickets. As dark fell that night so did the temperatures and, as we drove
down the hill, Paul and I talked about how nice it would be to be at home, sitting with the dogs in front
of the fireplace.

In the church basement, there was hand-painted stage scenery set up in one corner as we took our seats with our friend Polly. The lights went down and the mystery began.We ate arugula, beet and goat-
cheese salads, and lamb Shepherd’s Pie. We laughed with the actors as they forgot their lines and kept track of suspects with notes on the back of our programs. At the break, I felt someone squeeze my
shoulder and our friend and intrepid mail carrier smiled broadly. She hugged me tightly and thanked us
for coming. It was sincere.

After sticky toffee pudding with vanilla ice cream our table put heads together to determine the killer,
weapon and motivation. We left, waving to Zena, and dropping Polly at the front door of her large house where she lives alone. She leaned into the car and thanked us for the evening.

Sometimes the warmth of a dark car on a frigid night makes one thoughtful. Paul and I talked about
how glad we were to have gone to the play that evening: for many reasons, some altruistic and some
about the sticky toffee pud. We recognized that the proceeds would feed hungry families and help
procure warm clothing for those who are cold. We felt touched by the number of people sitting,
shoulder to shoulder under florescent lights in a church basement. Lifted by the warm food served by
volunteers: moved that, instead of simply asking for money, the church came up with dinner and a
show, a way on a snowy evening, to bring neighbors together.

These times make me nostalgic, achy for the familiar: but what I have found to be important is to
remember; to really notice beauty and good in what is, rather than wish for what has been.