We woke up to snow again yesterday. It didn’t amount to much by way of the ruler, but how it stirred the heart. Who knew we’d move down here and have so many snowstorms? Each feels like grace, each brings a delightful enchantment to two old dogs and one old man.
I’m falling in love with this place, with the divine aloneness, the spirit of windblown beaches, which we always seem to have to ourselves, and the twisted forests of bewitching trees and surprising hills alive with foxes and coyotes. The cottage, home for us until the middle of June, and then again after the middle of September until the next June, is perfectly us. It’s made for writing, reading, cooking — simple life, and it is already fragrant with hope and dreams of stories to be told.
Snow brings out the coziness, and I bring out the tea kettle. Like any halfway decent monastic, our possessions are minimal. I don’t own a plate (there are some here, though), and own only three bowls—one for eating out of, the other two for …
