There is a slight etch of snow on the limbs of the trees surrounding our home. The winter light is diffused by an incoming storm. This is the calm.
A few weeks ago I commented to Mark that our winter had been mild. Warm sunny days. A little snow painted the landscape; more like water color than oil paint. Now the brush strokes of winter are bolder, colder. Winter can be hard. Snow banks get sculpted by snow plows. Little arms and legs turn to putty when introduced to snow pants and jackets. The slightest outside chore can seem overwhelming when the temperature reads minus 10.
Every season has its moments of quiet. Spring brings small moments of wonder as the first sprouts appear from the soil. Summer brings the quiet satisfaction at the end of a good day of work. Autumn brings grander moments of awe as the landscape bursts into the beauty of change and decay. And winter has its quiet hibernation where the silence is punctuated by the sounds of seed catalog pages turning, spoons scraping the bottom of soup bowls, the click of knitting needles.