Monday, February 7, 2011
February 7: I have dug myself out from the great snow fall, with the help of the county snowplows and my cousin's wonderful truck-propelled blade. High piles of snow on either side of these country roads make driving an adventure. The white is so bright outside that you can only see by squinting your eyes almost closed. Even on a misty morning such as this, the reflected light is intense. The snowpack is squeaky and hard underfoot, the air tingling in my nose. Winter has hold of us and is at the top of his game. Yet life survives around the farm. Chickens huddle together in their round house and deign to deposit several brown eggs in their nests each day. The two horses, mother and daughter, stand peacfully in the snow-covered barnyard, seemingly unperturbed by the weather, with barn cats strolling nearby. And in my house, a jungle of plants crowd all the south windows, flourishing in this protected space, responding to the promise of longer days with new shoots and ambitious growth. It is this early rush by my houseplant friends that gives me hope. Despite appearances, winter is moving toward spring.