Monday

Suddenly, I feel a sense of urgency: I want to finish my Great Writing Project.

Over the weekend, I listened to stories about two extraordinarily famous British authors -- Agatha Christie and John le Carré. I have nothing much in common with either, least of all the talent that each possesses. But I do think that in being lackadaisical in my book writing, I've let go of something I once valued (and that these two certainly valued as well): the idea that a book deserves to be finished.

It is a perfect day to get excited about writing because you surely can't get excited about what's going on outside: rain. Cold, menacing rain.

(View from the sun room, where I choose not to eat breakfast.)

(Instead, we eat here. Where the orchids bloom and the daffodils are still showing signs of a happy if brief existence.)

Outside, the cheepers look like they're doing a dance around the one last clump of snow -- our slowly disappearing snowman.

So this morning and I hope most mornings of the remaining winter months, I write.

Even though the rain pauses when I pick up Snowdrop, it's not a good day for outdoor play. Say I. She has different ideas.
You see? I have my raincoat and my boots! 
Well, great then! Maybe we can find a puddle outside... I try not to think about how it's only in the upper 30sF (3 or 4C) out there.

Here she is, leaving school, with one of her favorite teachers. I ask -- does Snowdrop continue to invite friends to do works with her? (A Montessori school principle: you are responsible for your own work, unless you can invite a friend to share in it.) Oh yes, and she is very good at inviting her friends after she's done -- to help her clean up!  What can I say -- smart kid.

I hadn't intended to stay outdoors more than a minute, but when Snowdrop is revved up about an activity, it's best to let go of your reservations and join in on her spirited play.

A walk around the block in search of monster puddles is exhilarating (they are not monsters, grandma! But they're huge! No, they're not -- says the puddle expert extraordinaire)! 

Monster puddles, I tell you.

Walk done. I'm cold. She's in denial about the weather. Ah, but I have super cards up my sleeve: a fresh croissant in the car and a new Olivia book at the farmhouse.


A delicious snack, and an even more delicious set of minutes reading about the spunky pig's (Olivia's) search for a favorite toy, and now Snowdrop is ready to plunge into more active play. She goes straight for the drum. The music show is on her mind.

(She has the enthusiasm of a whole band.)

And shortly after, she returns to her stories. And her props for them. Babies, Playmobil characters, anything within reach.

(This particular tale has a running theme in it...)

When she leaves, the house grows very quiet. Ed has been lost to clearing out debris from the sheep shed -- a project that I'm sure will take the better part of winter. He and I eat a dinner of leftovers and then we return to our own works. I try not to count the days (well, more like months) until spring.  We're still owed a good sized snowstorm, no? Yes, a snowman that's bigger than the melted clump outside would be nice. I turn up the heat just a degree, close my eyes and think lovely thoughts of wintry landscapes. We're sure to have snow yet. I think. Maybe.