I love that snow precipitates not loudly but in quiet whispers. If it weren't for the occasional overnight wind batting flakes against the window, there'd be nothing to tell my sleeping self that, just outside, the world is being transformed. Beautifully so.
Already, a Sunday morning is my favorite part of the week, filled with not much at all, except Finn and a fat newspaper, crosswords and a nice walk, with a little NPR as background music. Add the surprise of snow and I wonder if a heart can burst from contentment.
By 6:30, Finn's sideward glances have had their desired effect and I begin lacing up my boots, even though I know his near-naked paws too soon will call "uncle" against the backdrop of unshoveled sidewalks. Sure enough, five houses from ours, he looks up at me, ashamed that he cannot walk any further. I bend down, swoop him into my arms and cradle his icy front paws as I turn back towards home.
My paws, however, are still toasty. And so, I drop Finn at home and head back outside, drawn by the quiet tabula rasa of untouched paths. I walk for quite awhile, into the neighborhood and through the park, warmed by the peace of it all.
This, this is what I see in my future--my feet on the ground and my head in the clouds, unfettered by deadlines or meetings. A hundred Sunday mornings laid out in front of me, my boots wet and scuffed and my heart filled to bursting.
