Happy and Awed

It snowed last night, finally.  Enough that we had to shovel this morning.  I suppose we didn’t have to shovel; a lot of people didn’t.

I drove home yesterday afternoon–before the snow that stuck–trying desperately to beat the school bus here, and was struck dumb by the sight of the trees along one stretch of the road. The branches were all white, in a sparkly, soft way. The sky behind and above them glowed. I wished I had my camera with me and considered grabbing my husband’s and driving back, but then decided just to love the look of them and how it made me feel without having to memorialize that look, that feeling with pictures.

Here’s how it made me feel: happy and full of awe.  These are words the writing teacher in me would say tell, don’t show. But they are the only ones I have right now.

I felt the same way after all the driving to and from lessons was over and one daughter sat on the couch reading, another doing her homework on the computer, and the other drawing a picture of a dragon for a school project, and the kittens were off somewhere, curled up against the cold. There was no music, no television, no soundtrack other than us being here, together.

Happy and awed.

And it sustained me: the trees and this moment with the girls. They sustained me through the storms that came later within the house as girls did battle with each other and with us, punishing each other in ways only family members can. Sustained me when the biscuits I made from scratch came out, well, not so great, but definitely edible and the girls refused to eat the soup I made.  Well, one ate the broth and the vegetables and took the three pieces of beef out and left them unceremoniously on her plate, next to her mostly edible biscuit. And one ate the beef and the potatoes, but not the carrrots.  And the other just made a big old crumbly mess eating two of those biscuits (so they can’t have been all bad).

It all worked together to remind me what I know but often forget: my soul, my spirit, my willingness to be engaged with the outside world (outside my head, I guess), needs desperately to be nourished, just as my body does. It needs these moment when I stop and see what really is going on. It needs to be sustained by beauty. By love. By hope. It needs this. I need this.


About TinaLBPorter

I write poetry and blog at www.tinalbporter.com. And I'm thrilled to be writing with you.
This entry was posted in Unitarian Universalism. Bookmark the permalink.