quiet hours

Home again, and I put on my boots to shovel snow from, well, everywhere. We have about a foot of it. I’m glad I’m not that broken tree although it looks sublime.

A north wind whistles softly and cold. Snowfall jewels my hair.

quiethoursNow two crows throw their voices into the gray air.  Two notes of music that have escaped the February songbook.

The winter quiet and white light make me feel peaceful now, a contrast to the writing and recording schedule I was ravaged by the past two weeks.

Last night, driving in, I couldn’t wait to be home to see my children, D and B’s sweet faces, and Dakota the Husky. Not that I’m ever immune to their loveliness. I love being with them. I love doing nothing and everything with them. I love our quiet winter weekends.  I like it quiet. I like to be around the people I like and love.

I love my art. I like that it lends itself to paying the bills. I don’t have to wreck my art for that purpose (too many musicians do). That would be a tragedy. Even the parts of the work I don’t like … help me recalibrate myself.

I love what I do, and I love why I do it. I don’t do it for fame or adulation. I do it to have the kind of life I have set up for myself.

My relationships with my children and that husky (and just a few close friends) make my life great. The triangle of faces pressed to the iced window when I drove up last night … the only wedge that can open the cold heart of winter.

 

 

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