Friday, February 24, 2006
the same street that earlier today two cross-country skiers made their way down the middle of the road in the middle of the day in the middle of town
Tonight I went for my first walk since Wednesday. I know I shouldn't have, but I missed my dog and the snow and fresh air and movement. It was just a short hike around the block, and despite the objections of my throat and lungs, it felt good--a deep blanket of feathery snow beneath my feet and a deeper darkness of stars above my head. In town I see so little of stars, but tonight their presence reminded me of my old place. While Anu rooted around in the snow I stopped and stared at the scanty pin-pricks of light with head tilted back--reminding me of a line by Joyce Carol Oates, "a scattering of lights like startled thoughts." It felt good to stand still in the cold air on a quiet night-time street. No cars, just silent snow on top of snow. In the darkness I found myself, for the first time, satisfied with the sky above me--even though it wasn't the country sky I left behind, a sky so heavy with stars that it used to, literally, steal my breath away on a regular basis. But still, even here, there is sky--where the bare branches of an oak tree, spread across the inky cosmos like miniature lightning bolts, are the only barrier between me and complete surrender.