As I write this it is snowing.
Actually, it is more of a blizzard.
Honestly, and bluntly, it is a white-out. The otherwise unobstructed view of the Colorado Rockies - 'the backyard', as I call it - is no more. The screen on my office window is plastered over by blowing snow and ice shards, forced into the metal meshing by winds described by weather experts as 'gale force'.
The outside temperature, according to the weather station inside the house, is five below. Factor in the wind and the speed at which it howls and screams, and the temperature is closer to twenty or twenty-five below.
Because of what is called 'climactic change' the dog cannot go outside.
And because he is a terrier, an 'earth dog', this does not please him. At all.
So he has undertaken in having the canine equivalent of a tantrum by doing wind sprints throughout the house while somebody yells at the top of their lungs, 'STOPSTOPSTOP!'
A thump, a thud indicates the dog has reached the living room, banked off the back of the couch, and is headed for the master bedroom. The goose-down comforter on the bed will no doubt be found later in a state of disarray because of the dog landing in the middle of it, followed by his version of break dancing on it, followed by him sliding off the bed and try to save himself before he lands on the deep carpet below and resuming his antics.
A thump as he hits the floor of the kitchen as he continues his high-speed, four-legged tantrum. A skittering of nails against tile floor indicates he is headed for a lower level of the house. More skittering and sliding on slick tile announces he has overshot the landing. A soft thump reports he has slid into the door leading to another part of the house, catching the spring-loaded door stopper as he works all four legs and feet back into an upright position.
--sproing!--
Thundering foot falls on the stairs indicates he is half way downstairs.
'STOPSTOPSTOP!'
The sound of hollow plastic falling against tile flooring announces he overshot the hallway at the bottom of the stairs and slid, like Derek Jeter of The New York Yankees famously does, into the bathroom, there.
Outside the wind howls and screams and more ice shrapnel is embedded into the window screen. As the wind slows to breathe a clock radio somewhere in the house blares to life. It was set for the benefit of a house guest now gone. Momentarily it gurgles and mumbles to silence.
The same cannot be said of the dog, now on the great, soft couch in the television room. His bark can be heard almost everywhere in the house, and the hysterical, alternating growling and yelping has gained the attention of more than one person, including the one who has been encouraging his antics with the pronouncement, 'STOPSTOPSTOP!'
Suddenly the barking and growling stops. All the dog wanted was someone to play with him, to pass the time until the storm subsides and the sun comes out again.
From the kitchen comes the low rumble and vibration of the bread-making machine. Momentarily it is followed by the perfume of hot, fresh bread, spread throughout the house by way of the heating system. Laughter from the television room because of something cute and funny performed by the dog. The furnace grumbles and a new scent is brought forth - the smell of stew, slow cooking.
Later, when the mail is dealt with, when the work for the day is done, I will go into the kitchen, cut a slice of fresh bread, scoop up a cup of stew, and with the dog at my feet, enjoy the day as it remains, thankful for all I have, and all there is that is my Life.
It's good to be home.
It's time to be home.
Last year, as some know, was a somewhat trying year. Last year, as some know, was a time of consideration, reflection, contemplation, and meditation. A review of what is and is not important; what is and is not necessary and needed.
All of which has led to this year.
This year will be different from last year. Very different. This year I intend and am going to get a lot of reading done. And not just for the sake of research. Pleasure reading. The stack on the headboard of the bed is such that every time I get into or out of bed it wobbles and trembles in a concerning manner because it desires the certain embrace of gravity. The stack is always added to because I keep buying more and more things to read. The stack is always growing because of gifts by well-intended and well-meaning types. There is nothing wrong with this practice except I have not kept up with my recreational reading and the stack is so high now I cannot get two fingers between the top of it and the ceiling in the bedroom.
This year I will not be going out as much as I had in the past. This year I am going to embrace life at home.
This year I am going to be a homebody as much as possible. The inherent excitement of travel, the open road still holds an appeal but the appeal of life here is more so. The garden always needs tending - I am looking forward to blisters on my palms from digging up the soil in the garden in preparation of planting onion sets and tomato plants and peppers yellow, orange, and green. I desire the prospect of sweating because I pushed the mower around the yard in the heat of the day. I want to be able to sit on the west deck, a glass of wine in hand, and watch the sun set beyond the mountains, and pleasure in the colorings as they change, going to the inky blackness of the night interspersed with stars seemingly infinite, and listen with delight to the coyotes howl, calling to another in between and beyond the uplifts known to locals as 'hogbacks'.
There are day trips and day hikes to undertake, with the promise of my big, comfortable bed waiting at the end of the day. Oh, my big, comfortable bed. I acquired it years ago but until recently, by way of gifts and presents from caring persons with my best interests in mind, I had not enjoyed it properly. With the addition of a goose-down comforter and flannel sheets warm from the dryer, a good night sleep takes on new dimensions of pleasure and delight, and provide reason to meet the new day.
This year I am going to get things organized and done in a new way. Instead of grand and sweeping efforts a sense of accomplishment and pride will come from the little things. Writing and pursuing more personal projects done not for the pursuit of coin and capital but because they mean something me, now, and, maybe, someday, to someone else.
This year I am going to clarify and simplify. Although my life has always had direction and purpose such pursuits have often come with complexity and burden I now see unnecessary. Instead of lingering and anguishing over details that become irrelevant with the passing of time I am going to engage what others will no doubt perceive as single-mindedness.
And I am going to make time - lots of time - for those important to me.
Writing is a selfish pursuit. It must be to be successful. But to realize this selfishness one must first embrace and celebrate those who allow the selfishness eventually.
Therefore, to realize good writing - if not great writing (he said, modestly) - time must be made for those who make me what I am.
And I begin by taking a place on the great, soft couch with the dog and others and settling in to watch a film I intended to watch years ago but never did.
As I do the sun makes an appearance in the seemingly endless white outside.