Thursday, October 31, 2013

The apple and the tree



I woke to the gauzy, unexpected light of snow in the air this morning. The flakes were unsure of themselves. New to the stage. They meandered and floated more than they actually fell. But they were there. We saw them. Huddled together for warmth on the roof of the barn, collected on the top edge of the windshield wipers, stuck in a spider's web. We saw them. 

Like shuttling through darkness, turning the bend and seeing that glimpse of light, we’ve broken through. No more waiting and wondering and lamenting and regretting and reminiscing about things, warm and breezy, easy things left behind.

Winter is approaching. Our world has been stripped bare and stands exposed, ready and waiting, unafraid, un-self conscious, unashamed of its nakedness. Prepared.

 Fall agitates. Winter soothes. Spring promises. Summer lulls.

How sensitive can one be to the seasons? How is it that the spinning of the earth, the proximity to the sun, the length of days, the attitude of light, the precipitation or lack of precipitation, can dictate my outlook, my chemistry?

Did I inherit this hyper connectedness? My children may be learning it from me.  The rain draws them outside to dance. Dark days soothe them. They love snow-- the smell of it, the look of it, the feel of it, the sound of it.

On this, one of the darkest mornings we’ve had in a year, the house was still dark, their eyelids shut tight, at 7:05 a.m.

"Wake up, wake up, we’re going to be late for school," I shouted. “No light. No light.” Isla said, scootching backwards under her blanket to escape the rudeness of the bedside lamplight.

And Esther, in the dim light coming through her attic window, her body shaped, no contorted, into its usual arched , jumping fish pose in a tangle of covers. Her head never in line with her feet. Nothing, not even the fear of being late for school, stirred these children.

That is until I mentioned the snow. In an instant they were up, wide eyed, running, barefooted, to the windows, down the stairs, back door flung open, hands out, tongues out, itching for a feel, or a taste, of the sky.



10 comments:

parenthoodaworkinprogress said...

Well, for crap's sake, Betsy, you are such the writer. ha ha, that is my sarcasm and envy combined. You may have been an expert down slopes, but you are most surely also an expert with words, my friend. And there it is. I've been reading your two blogs so long I feel like I "know" you as a "friend." Thank you, again, for sharing your world and world view with us. I feel much the same about many seasonal emotions you discussed. Hugs to you and your girls and I am still so gosh darn happy for you that your husband is back with you three there. Happiest of Halloweens today and winter ahead to you. From Liz, a few states down, in MA.

Betsy said...

Thank you Liz. You are ever so loyal. For crap's sake! (:

parenthoodaworkinprogress said...

hee hee, Betsy, I had to come back and see if you responded to my comment.... who knows where in the world that "for crap's sake" part came from?!! Happy November First. Or, should I say, weirdly-warm-windy-sprinkly-love-fall-but-it-also-makes-me-contemplative-and-melancholy-at-times November. Take care and soak up those girls. I got tears in my eyes when I purchased my second baby's number 9 candle today. It goes too to fast. sniff.

Liz F. said...

Beautifully written.... thank you.

Emma said...

I feel the seasons in the same way, though reversed. Spring renews me, summer soothes, autumn makes me restless and winter drags me down. Though I have felt that if our winters were more pronounced and not just a slightly cooler version of autumn, it might actually be easier to cope with. Beautiful entry as always!

Anonymous said...

I love your writing. It gives me back what I'm missing by not being there. It's hard being in the desert. Actually, it sucks! The seasons don't adhere to the natural laws of nature here.... or maybe it's the laws of nature as I'VE defined them?! I don't know. It was 27* when I woke up this morning and it got up to almost 80* by this afternoon.

It's good to "hear" from you again. I miss it when you don't write!

KiminAZ

Betsy said...

I was just recently, very recently, thinking about you, KiminAZ.
I'm happy, and sorry, my posts about Vermont resonate so much with you. I can only imagine. I think I told you before how alien, and homesick, I felt in Western states like Colorado and Utah simply because I was so stuck on the four seasons according to New England.
I'll try to write more, really I will.
It's raining and warm now. Sigh.

Anonymous said...

I love reading your posts. It's a happy sadness that I get when I read and think about your descriptions of back home. I'll get back there one day, even if it's just for a visit.

What was it that you were thinking about me?

It was dry and 85* today. Sigh! I'd love rainy and warm right now.

KiminAZ

Clare Smadja said...

Where are you Betsy??? We miss you!!!

Rebecca said...

haven't heard from you in awhile here or babycenter...missing your posts & hoping everything is alright.