In High Places

Am I settled in, yet?

The snow came down in fat flakes, lazily, all night. By the third day, there was enough powder and ice to sled on, and it didn’t take much coaxing to get the children outside. Well, maybe a little. The promise of hot cocoa does do wonders.

I am glad for the winter and its cold, for the invitation—the expectation—to slow down, to sink down, to settle into a hibernation of contemplation and rest. It wakens in me a longing to do just those things, but much like Cinderella with news of the ball, it seems an impossibility at the moment. After all, there are still three meals a day to make, children to school, laundry to do. I am now 52 years old, and decades later, the trenches of homemaking never seem shallow enough to look over the edge. I thought it would be easier by now.

I creak open the woodstove in the kitchen and gently feed in another log. I can hear the children squealing outside, all but Ruby, who insists upon sitting on the couch inside, stemming. Ruby has Down syndrome (like one…