louise on the left (coast)

There is snow. Lots of it. As far as the eye can see and still more landing every second. White snow falling thick and silently on the world from every window. So clean and soft and quiet. It's a few days before Christmas. We don't have a tree up, yet. And Santa has yet to drive into NorthPollaboro to stock up on goodies, yet. My parents who we came out to see barely see us in the moments the weather will allow before pulling shut the curtains on sane travel. We stay in a snug, modern, one bedroom wood cabin which now has heat and water and lots of tall windows which look out over the meadows and trees. It is a very lovely, and remote place to be snowbound in. There's not a working television or a cell phone that has service, but a modem, so this is the way I maintain my technological fix with the universe. The quiet is meditative. I sift through my memories of Christmas past and present to reexamine what lasts and what is inconsequential. Like seashells I hold the re

I'm in Vermont. Again. It's cold. There's snow. The stars are brighter. People remain absolutely the same, although most of them seem smaller and sadly, most of the color has drained from their bodies. From outside in. Sometimes, out in the woods it's so quiet it feels like there's cotton in my ears. I cannot believe how clean the world is when you just leave it alone. Back in the houses I keep watching the slow, inevitable, spinning freeze-fall of those I love, but can never seem to touch. I see time's softening of the edges & hope this means their fall won't be too painful. I cannot think of anything else to do other than hope for grace and reason. I do not expect anything to be easy; only inevitable. Home is not behind us, or where your mother is, or even wear you hang your hat; Home is where you need home to be, which is a trick I hope to pass on. I look forward to next year with more faith my steps up to this point. Seal Beach, Costa Mesa,