hidden sweetness

Dawn always tells us something,
always.
(Adam Zagajewski, Mute City)

...that it's cold...very cold. Minus 7 yesterday morning when I left for meditation at Metta. Snow doesn't melt, ice patches treacherously dot parking lots and sidewalks. I've been hibernating. So I tell my friends. It's true, my own version of overwintering. One friend said, "glad to see that you're moving during your hibernation." To Santa Fe, casino-ing, going out to lunch, to the movies. What we hardly ever do together, Ron and me. Just the two of us. No parties. The hibernation part is that I'm not meeting friends for lunch or coffee, shopping, or making other appointments that pull me away for great chunks of the day. More of a quiet time - like the Pueblo people do for a month in March. This is my quiet time. I'm not  actually doing any work either. My personality contains a "no sense of urgency" clause and I'm realizing it fully during this dark season. It will soon come to an end, of course. And I'm already writing the official To Do list starting after January first - when I'm sure the days will be pleasanter and the light longer.

I don't have a cat and this one's long gone, but I 'm in a cat and tea mood and can conjure the mood without props. My dog Spike, who normally loves snow, avoids going outside as much as possible and when he comes in I have to check that his paws aren't encrusted with ice and snow. He seems grateful, stands still, looks at me with soulful eyes as I touch him.

And then the night comes. The bright last full moon of 2012 engenders occasional inspired moments. Unexpected things happen, some good, some not so good, but it seems I can deal with it. What's the alternative? Do I wish I was somewhere else this winter? Well. Yes.

 It was a holiday, but we turned away from the holiday.
Books lay on the table, we didn't read them now.
In the distance was the great world, a world of love and betrayal,
unknown, unnamed, always, still completely new.
     (Adam Zagajewski, It Was a Holiday)