I've just come inside, after dragging bins to the curb on this black and frosty morning--walking back up the driveway toward the lamplit windows, opening the door to a burst of heated air. I will never stop marveling at the wonders of light and warmth. Lots of people complain about winter, and possibly I will too, in a month or so, but I so far I am loving this November chill, the creeping darkness of evenings and mornings, sweaters and tea and wood fires at night.
My friend Sue and I spent yesterday tramping through Viles Arboretum in Augusta, losing and finding ourselves among the badly marked paths, admiring tamaracks and gingkoes, eating our lunches on a cold stone bench, chattering nonstop. It was such a good afternoon. Sue and I have known each other since Harmony playgroup days, when our older sons were best friends, and we love each other dearly. I woke up this morning thinking of the deep, deep pleasure I take in these long friendships, these women who have known me since I was a callow young mother; how glad I am that they haven't faded away, how grateful I am that we all work hard to keep our affections alive.
Today I'll be back to the grind--that same-old circle of editing, class planning, and reading contest mss, spiked with housework. Maybe in the afternoon I can get outside and start digging up the frost-killed dahlias, or I'll go for a gloaming walk in the cemetery. At the moment I feel happy just to be sitting here, warm and alive.