Snow!

No big thoughts today...just a huge sense of gratefulness for the morning's snowstorm. Watching the dog run around in it, listening to the kids shriek as those first flakes came down, standing with my face tipped up and feeling the clumps of coldness...it's a wonderful, light-filled break from the drip, drip, drip of the dark winters around here.

I remember my dad, a Seattle native, complaining about the endless snow in the small Lake Michigan town where I grew up. When I said I wouldn't want to live somewhere where it rained all the time, he said, "Well, honey, you don't have to shovel rain. And if you want to see some snow or go skiing, you just drive right up to the mountain."

Dad was right. You don't have to shovel rain. But I wouldn't mind the chance to shovel snow on a more regular basis. 

In the meantime, no big thoughts--just gratitude.

What to Read When You have the Flu

Other than those horrible hours when you're unable to read at all because of the pounding headache, wracking nausea, feverish delirium and quivering limbs (or because you're lying on a sleeping bag in your bathroom shaking and crying and generally being The Cul De Sac's Biggest Drama Queen Ever), having the flu gives you the perfect excuse to hang around in bed and read. Based on recent personal experience, and with the stern reminder that you should be accompanied by tea, crackers, popsicles and household pets (one large snoring dog and two purring cats is optimum) in order to fully enjoy the recovery period, I recommend the following books:


Cleopatra, A Life by Stacy Schiff. Marvelous research--transports you back to that time and makes all the sights and sounds and smells come alive...ooog, the smells. Maybe not such a good choice. Moving on...

Vision in White, by Nora Roberts. Those who read her hard-hitting detective work (written as JD Robb) may not know that Roberts got her start writing romances. Sassy dialogue, good girlfriends, drama queen narcissistic mothers, sexy sex scenes...yuck, not really so great, either. Moving on, again.


Shadows on the Rock, by Willa Cather. Sometimes re-reading a classic, especially one set during the early days of Quebec City (my mom's people arrived on the second boatload over from France, so I love this book for many reasons) is just like comfort food. Until we get to page 156: " A great many people in the town were sick at this time, and Cecile herself caught a cold and was feverish. Her father wrapped her in blankets and made her sit with her feet in a hot mustard bath while she drank a great quantity of sassafras tea." I do NOT need the reminder that people have been getting sick like this for centuries. I wish to wallow in my own personal hell and feel Put Upon by the Universe. Next!


Dark Road to Darjeeling, by Deanna Raybourn. Somewhat spooky, definitely mysterious, perhaps a leetle bit bloody...let's try something else.


The Huffington Post Complete Guide to Blogging by various editors and Ms. 395 Gazillion Dollar AOL Buyout herself, Arianna Huffington. Okay, now my head is spinning again and the nausea is back. And just because I'm feeling pissy, I'm not putting in the link to that book. 


At this point, I did what any sensible person would do: I turned on my laptop and played online Scrabble, losing horribly, of course, and making words such as DOG and RAG and AM. When I'm feeling better, I'll get back to the stack of books on my bedside table, including one I've been saving for months, the newest YA book in the Bartimaeus sequence, written by Jonathon Stroud. "Bartimaeus: The Ring of Solomon" might be just what I need to get my mind off my own little world.

I Don't Want To!

I don't want to.
I woke up one morning last week with those words running through my head. 
As I lay in bed, I let my mind tell me all the things I didn't want to do. The list was long, and petty, and whiny, and persistent:


I don't want to get out of this warm bed.
I don't want to walk down that long driveway with the old dog and get the newspaper in the freezing cold.
I don't want to get the girls up.
I don't want to make breakfasts.
I don't want to make lunches.
I don't want to make peace, if necessary, between siblings warring over the bathroom and personal space and anything else they could think up.
I don't want to drive them to carpools and bus stops.
I don't want to walk the dog in the mud and cold and clean her up afterwards.
I don't want to cook, to do laundry, to scoop the cat boxes, to go to the bus stop, to make dinner.


The entire day stretched in front of me as one big DON'T; the only thing I did want to do was stay in bed all day long.


Reality check: My life is pretty easy; I'm blessed with friends and family and animals and work that I love and a warm house. I can hike with friends and dogs on a regular basis. I can buy food at the grocery store. I can turn the key in my car's ignition and know that it will start. I can afford gas for the car, and insurance, and maintenance costs. My jeans fit and my boots are watertight and my coats are warm and water-resistant. I thought of all these things. I scolded myself with all my blessings. I railed against my ungratefulness.


And yet the parade of DON'Ts continued, finally crashing into I DON'T WANT TO REMEMBER THAT THE ANNIVERSARY OF MY BROTHER'S DEATH IS ALMOST HERE.
All the other DON'T's suddenly made sense, and I felt something shift inside me.
And so I got up and made breakfast, and lunches, and walked the dog, and edited a book, and the sadness lifted.
Year by year by long year, I'm better at being grateful for his life, and not so hooked into mourning his death. I'm not sure what more I can ask for.