Tahoe in the morning. . .

Tahoe in the evening. . .

Tahoe at suppertime. . .

Snow and Vice

There is a wonderland out there, encased in ice.  It seems that for awhile, everything stilled, waiting. We were a bit surprised, we in the South, with our girly man anti-winter equipment: a few snowplows, salt trucks, airplane de-icers, all purchased at Lowe's, on sale.   Atlanta skidded off the road.  There were numerous exclamatory reports of frozen this and closed that.  Concord, closer to Briarpatch, didn't move much either.  USAir, the airline that has logged most of our miles lately, did not fly from Charlotte.
Husband John, raised in snowbooties in the Western North Carolina mountains, simply put on jeans and got in the car.  Rumor has it he was one of the few people in the Southeastern U. S. at work Monday and Tuesday.  But he talks with people in warmer climes anyway:  Portugal, Mexico, South America.  And the ones in Russia and Canada are not very sympathetic. 
The dogs were a bit confused, but then, from our perspective, they remain that way.  Not sure it isn't the other way around and they are the ones who have it figured out.  No matter the weather, they sleep on the bed, get breakfast before dawn and dinner in the middle of the afternoon.  After John gets home, it is out for ball-playing then in to wait at the pantry door for Doggie Crack, a disgusting something rolled around ersatz liver.  Makes them deliriously happy.  All day long, there is the couch, (Huey has his own chair),  random barking just to stay in voice, coming up for ear rubbing, and periodically, out to make rounds.  Rounds for Huey The Younger (the one on the right) includes the neighbor's.  They have friends over once a week to play games and Huey is a regular.
You need to understand that Huey logged in just under "obese" at his last vet visit so since then we have had him on what is known in our house as Jenny Craig for Dogs.  This translates to special food which can cost more per pound than ours.

It took Huey one and a half of these new dinners to discover supplementation, the equivalent of stopping at Dunkin' Donuts on the way home from your Weight Watchers meeting:  the compost pile.  Then, lo and behold, if you go next door while this whole group of people is occupied playing games while they eat their sandwiches, and do your one trick (sitting) and give them the brown eye treatment, well, chances are they can't resist and will give you a bite here and there.  It didn't take long for that to escalate.  Well, it took his dragging home a whole roll of bologna and getting caught.  Then the authorities were notified.  Neighbor Jennifer now keeps an eye on the whole situation, and he's been (at least partially) cut off.  You can't blame them.  He gets more treats than he ought to at home too. 
I have been  under the impression that if my chocolate after dinner doesn't count, because it is after dinner, then maybe those biscuits he gets because we feel so sorry for him being on a diet shouldn't count either.
Well the math isn't working for either one of us. . .
Wait a minute, this started out being a story about ice and snow.  How did we get to poundage? Clearly I need more coffee. . .with cream. . .and chocolate protein drink. . .well, its cold!

January. . .

It seems I have already begun to sink into this January.  Despite the fact that there are events requiring a lot from me until January 24th, the pull has already begun to exert itself. 
January is a poet’s month, all sparseness and concentrated, concealed power. It seems a little astonishing that our response is to lose interest, to look away, to put on more clothes and move indoors, our eyes away from the windows.  What is there to see?  All bleakness, gray, no brilliant color.  Only when it is all covered, in blankets of comfortable looking snow do we pronounce it beautiful.  Only then, when hidden.  This is the child’s view of the world: I must be entertained; I deserve to be constantly courted, by bright greens!  Luscious flowers! Butterflies, bees, deeply colored birds and birdsong! The youth of the year we pronounced beautiful.
But it is now, with its bones revealed, it is now that the unflinching truth is told.  This is what is underneath it all. Here is the support, the source, the life-energy, the sap, concentrating.  This is wisdom, not knowledge.  This is true power, not just strength. This is what I want to absorb, through osmosis, through paying attention.  This is January, my January, roots deeply sunk into this Earth.

On our way. . .

It is already the 7th of January.  Next Friday at this time, we will be (almost) on a plane to Lake Tahoe.  We will have gotten up in the thick darkness, and loaded our protesting selves into the car.  We will have joined other lemmings traveling I-85 South, all of whom will know it would be better to be in bed, asleep, rather than whatever poor excuse finds them more or less in control of  a several thousand pound machine, in the dark.  No one’s biorhythms cooperate with such a schedule.  The body simply knows better.
Nonetheless, there will be a brief exhilaration at the earlier than usual action; a public destination requiring clothes, a clear goal powered by earlier than usual caffeine.  We will suddenly realize ourselves among the blessed, these other creatures who also know how to take advantage of these hidden resources, these hours when we are usually in bed.  What have we been thinking?  What a gold mine!  This will last several hours actually, kept aloft by the novelty of security screening, then sitting next to strangers, rising into the sky at dawn, having more strangers bring us bad coffee.  But before we fall from the sky, it will begin to dissipate.  These artisanal selves, these specially-prepared selves will begin to deflate into the real thing. The self that didn’t really want to get up so early, that didn’t get enough sleep, that doesn’t like being dragged out of a warm kitchen and onto a dark bleak Interstate to smile at equally sleep-deprived strangers in the middle of the night, that now overly fatigued, overly caffeinated, low blood-sugared, cranky self will take its place.  By the time the plane lands in Reno, Nevada, that self will be the one negotiating the rental car, dealing with whether the other two flights we are meeting are on time, the ones carrying the skiing nephews.  It will be that self that chats with them on the final leg of the trip to Lake Tahoe, to try to find the house, to meet more strangers, to allocate bedrooms and think groceries for dinner and is there going to be an effort at night skiing on Friday.  Already not good.  Already requiring more than is available.  Better take extra naps every day until then.  All in the name of peace on Earth, good will toward. . . well, everything. . .

Renewal. . .

It is time to feel my way down to the root hairs. Last year, last January, I took myself to the beach:  cases of books, a tiny stovetop espresso maker, some good knives, soft clothes and a big bag of greens from the garden.  The first week was full of repairmen.  I learned my lesson on another beach retreat, when the checker outer at the rental agency was much more attentive than the checker inner.  I watched my damage deposit evaporate.  This time, my inventory was thorough: slip covers were cleaned, torn blankets replaced, the light over the stove and cable repaired.  It wasn't the foyer to quiet that I anticipated, but it gave me time to sign up at the gym, find the year-round farmer's market and the local coffee shop with wifi and the stoned barefoot barista. 
My only commitment was to get up in the dark and watch the sunrise each morning.  The third-floor beachfront condo faced due East.  I couldn't have missed the sunrise had I wanted to, and each day, even when overcast, I was there.  There were spectacles beyond description, where I ran out of ways to describe pinks and oranges and golds.  There were days when the water seemed laden with smoke; if you were unable to hear the waves, you wouldn't have known you were beachside.  The chill was record-breaking, I heard the comparisons in the check-out lane at the Piggley-Wiggley.  I tried walking, but gave up after inducing repeated earaches, even with a snug headband.  The gym treadmill was a very poor second, but with someone next to me on the elliptical, I had as much social life as I wanted. . .
It took awhile to quiet the voices, the ones that demanded production!  Accountability!  Service to others, you lapsed Presbyterian!  I gave them a chair across the room from my writing table, handed them a coloring book and that seemed to help.   Ever ever so slowly, I began to detect whispers at the bottom of the barrel, in the dark, in the swollen quiet.  Ever ever so slowly, a deeper layer of myself emerged, risked exposure, shyly showed herself in barely discernible outline.  Fragile, newly born.  It took Big Quiet to hold her, to not frighten her away.  Big Quiet, Expansive Time for her to strengthen.
This year, more aware of what it costs those left behind for me to be completely relocated for a month, I am attempting an at-home retreat.  I'll admit skepticism, but am optimistic.  I have about three weeks until I can begin, and then my plan is to re-engage the third week in February. 
I feel starved for this nourishment, after a particularly busy Fall and Early Winter.  I shall report here as I come up with the design, and report out during my "confinement."