Shaking the Snow Off
I have come to grips with the poor memory that results from too little sleep and too many distractions enough to know that if there's something I want to remember, I have to write it down. Sometimes I risk life and limb (not necessarily my own) to do so.
One example: I recently found a receipt on the floor of my car with a few meandering words scrawled on the back with a blue ballpoint pen that barely worked. I immediately recalled that I had written these words while driving (yes, with my children in the back seat) after the heavy snowfall we got in early December. (The roads had been plowed, so it wasn't nearly as dangerous as it sounds.)
This was our first Major Snowfall of the year, and EVERYONE was marveling at how beautiful everything was. The snow was sticky-icy as it fell and left all the bare trees and shrubs looking as though they'd been thickly frosted and sprinkled with glitter. It was one of those truly spectacular things that even snow-haters enjoy.
Taking this in as I drove through a semi-wooded neighborhood, I noticed most especially the tall old pine trees that stood in front of many of the houses. With their wide, needled branches, they had collected the most snow of all--but only on one side. From the north, the trees looked as they normally would, but from the south, they were weighted down, their boughs hanging a good two or three feet lower than their comrades 180 degrees away. Depending on your point of view, they were either standing tall or about to fall over.
As a parent of small children, I can look that way, too. I have one face for the acquaintance who, seeing me struggle to tow my charges into the Y, says with a chuckle, "Boy, you've got your hands full." I give a cordial little laugh and flash a polite smile to confirm that, yes, indeed I do.
But for those occasional others who really want to know just how full my hands are, I turn and show the the side of me that faces the storm, the side occasionally laden with the physical and emotional weight of children, their stuff, and their needs.
This self-exposure is mostly cathartic, a brief respite from stiff-upper-lipdom. But once in a while, someone (or Someone) particularly caring or acutely sympathetic will take hold of me and shake some of the snow off my branches. And the lift I get from that brings me back into balance again, righting me for the storms yet to come.
One example: I recently found a receipt on the floor of my car with a few meandering words scrawled on the back with a blue ballpoint pen that barely worked. I immediately recalled that I had written these words while driving (yes, with my children in the back seat) after the heavy snowfall we got in early December. (The roads had been plowed, so it wasn't nearly as dangerous as it sounds.)
This was our first Major Snowfall of the year, and EVERYONE was marveling at how beautiful everything was. The snow was sticky-icy as it fell and left all the bare trees and shrubs looking as though they'd been thickly frosted and sprinkled with glitter. It was one of those truly spectacular things that even snow-haters enjoy.
Taking this in as I drove through a semi-wooded neighborhood, I noticed most especially the tall old pine trees that stood in front of many of the houses. With their wide, needled branches, they had collected the most snow of all--but only on one side. From the north, the trees looked as they normally would, but from the south, they were weighted down, their boughs hanging a good two or three feet lower than their comrades 180 degrees away. Depending on your point of view, they were either standing tall or about to fall over.
As a parent of small children, I can look that way, too. I have one face for the acquaintance who, seeing me struggle to tow my charges into the Y, says with a chuckle, "Boy, you've got your hands full." I give a cordial little laugh and flash a polite smile to confirm that, yes, indeed I do.
But for those occasional others who really want to know just how full my hands are, I turn and show the the side of me that faces the storm, the side occasionally laden with the physical and emotional weight of children, their stuff, and their needs.
This self-exposure is mostly cathartic, a brief respite from stiff-upper-lipdom. But once in a while, someone (or Someone) particularly caring or acutely sympathetic will take hold of me and shake some of the snow off my branches. And the lift I get from that brings me back into balance again, righting me for the storms yet to come.
posted by Lisa Strandberg at 9:48 PM
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