There was a bit of grumbling as I drove to my bar this morning to shovel off another half-inch of snow. "At least if it's going to snow," a voice inside me said, "at least make it worthwhile." Immediately another voice in me whacked the first voice across the back of the head, reminding him that last time there was a "worthwhile" snow I didn't stand up straight for three days. Uff-da.
The bitter cold is keeping everyone in, which is a shame because that same extreme cold made last night's snow spectacularly crystalline. I scooped up a handful but it was too light to feel. And the nearly full moon lit it as if from the inside out. It was so pristine and perfect this morning I didn't want to shovel it —but then I didn't want to shovel it anyway.
January is usually my Month of Introspection, which means sitting on the couch a lot drinking cappuccino, daydreaming and playing guitar. But exploding sewers and barbarian renters have kept me armed with more literal tools all month, scraping, hammering and painting. My horoscope says simple labor is good for me—it keeps me grounded. I think that's true, although sometimes I feel grounded more in the way my mom used to mean it.