we were on our way to a friend's house last weekend to cook and eat and drink for all afternoon and evening. a physcian and a writer, both world travelers, with a particular fancy for inviting an eclectic group of soon-to-be friends to chop fish for bouillabaise, simmer sauces that start with three other sauces, pour chocolate into cakes and over figs, eat sushi in front of the fire, and finish off the long day with pork and veal, artichokes and caper berries, melon and tapas, and deep, dusty Spanish wines. a perferct day.
on the way, the snow was flying, not just falling. fluffy tornadoes and lacy veils that lifted and fell and twisted on the wind.
"the snow," he said, "allows you to see the wind. we can always feel it, and sometimes hear it, but only once in a great are we allowed to see it."
makes me think of other things we deeply feel but can't always see. things like hope or doubt, fear or courage. and of course, love.
sometimes snow falls inside us. seasons aside, when we need to understand things most, snow falls. it drops in tiny drifts and rolling banks in our hearts. and when it does, we slowly see all the feelings we have felt forever.
peace and comfort, this. as we sit in front of fires with wine and friends, we feel it all.
but this time
we can see it, too.
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