Snow Day Ramblings

As I sit here, the snow is falling peacefully.  After a relatively mild winter, we have experienced three winter storms of snow and/or ice and expecting another later this week.  I don't go in ice.  On top of that, we've had subzero temperatures.  I have a life-threatening condition which sends me into anaphylactic shock if I'm out in cold weather.  So I have been inside for 13 days now.

God is so good.  He knows when we need slowing down, time to rest and reflect...and get some of those jobs done that have been looming with no time in the frenzied schedule to tackle or finish.  I've been doing lots of both (even sneaking in a nap or two.)   Since I can't be outside in the cold, I was inspired to do some window nature study and marvel at the creative hand of God.  The cardinals, blue jays, juncos, nuthatches, chickadees and woodpeckers have been grateful for the feast we have provided.  Backyard Birds of Winter by Carol Lerner has supplemented our observations.

One of the projects I have been trying to accomplish for a few months and was able to complete is rearranging the library.  It is no small feat to shift over 17,000 books.  I've also catalogued and labeled my Middle Ages and poetry sections and have begun the Renaissance/Reformation section.  Thanks to a sale at Demco and a $50 coupon, I was able to invest in good quality bookends to expand my fiction area to the top of the bookcases.  This gave me the equivalent of two more bookcases of space!

School continues with snowballs, sledding and snowmen doubling as P.E.  Lots of reading by a cozy fire is keeping our imaginations aflame.  Our current poet this term is Emily Dickinson.  I leave you by sharing today's poem.


The Snow

It sifts from leaden sieves,
It powders all the wood,
It fills with alabaster wool
The wrinkles of the road.

It makes an even face
Of mountain and of plain,--
Unbroken forehead from the east
Unto the east again.

It reaches to the fence,
It wraps it, rail by rail,
Till it is lost in fleeces;
It flings a crystal veil

On stump and stack and stem,--
The summer's empty room,
Acres of seams where harvests were,
Recordless, but for them.

It ruffles wrists of posts,
As ankles of a queen,--
Then stills it's artisans like ghosts,
Denying they have been.