There are times when it feels like magic. When the snow is falling softly and you're walking in the woods and the world looks untouched. When there's a house to return to with a toasty fire and strong coffee.
But even the most magical winter days feel shrouded in a sort of sadness that I can't really explain. I suppose it's the knowledge that this cold, dark world will continue for months.
I spent the weekend making things. I went to my mother's house in the country. It's on a little spring-fed lake, which is particularly scenic when it's frozen over.
Saturday, we canned dill pickles and made marmalade.Sunday morning, we ate cornmeal waffles with bourbon syrup. We went into town and traipsed about the antique stores. I bought tiny old-timey tourist trinkets that remind me of people who are too far away. As if drinking from a frosted glass could somehow bring them closer to me. Later we gathered herbs and pine boughs and made tiny wreaths.
I returned to Detroit and hung a tiny wreath on my door and listened to a Bing Crosby Christmas record I found at an antique shop. I settled into the sort of peaceful sadness that winter seems to bring.
