Snow, and stillness

The Worries clamored like a pack of hungry preschoolers at snack time.  I stood in the shower this morning and let myself be assaulted by every single anxious thought my brain could manufacture in the space of ten minutes and the shampoo-soap-razor routine.

Forgot to... why didn't I... need to pay... have to remember... what IS it she thinks Santa is bringing?  this bill... that list... those emails.  On and on the siege raged.

Out of the shower, drying off, I noticed the very first snowflakes of winter swirling past the window.  I peered out into my backyard, and saw the faintest dusting on the kids' swings, on the Adirondack chairs, on the picnic table.

Funny, how often it is that nature will speak to us when rational thought eludes.  Stop, Kirsten. Enough. Enough. Be still.

Once dressed, I went outside to take photos, my kids fully occupied by sweeping off the front lawn. [Bizarre, I know. They're just goal oriented, I guess.] The heavy snow-filled air demanded silence of me, and I obliged.  I watched as the white flakes covered all that remained unfinished - the abandoned toys of summer, the leaves of fall - and I was still.  I silenced my anxieties, and chose peace.

Enough. There will always be more, always be not-quite-right. But for now, especially now, I will simply be still. I will find quietude for my head, for my home, for my family.  The stillness of the snow came early enough to teach me.