Today, Christmas Eve, it looks like the early-morning mist will last all day.
It’s quiet, the rain drizzles, and traffic on the road outside is slow. I look out at the two magnificent black oaks in my neighbor’s yard. They must be sixty feet high and a hundred years old. Every day they are beautiful in a different way. They are immediately west of my window here and on some evenings the sun goes down directly behind them and the branches act like a sort of prism, breaking the light into visible beams. On moonlit nights their gigantic trunks are white and the fine fingers of the highest branches seem to touch the stars.
But today the smallest of the branches at the very top fade and disappear into this lingering mist.
I’ll go out for a walk, soon, and go off of the beaten path today, maybe even through the muddy woods. But for now I am ensconced in this warm house that at the moment feels like the inside of one of those honey-windowed houses in the Thomas Kinkade paintings. The space heater at my feet whispers and wafting from the kitchen are aromas from beef roasting in the oven, a long tray of just-toasted cashews sitting on a counter, newly-baked macaroons on the table, and coffee, of course coffee. It really is that good. The house feels restful and prayer-like. It’s kind of ideal, like you think and hope it will feel when you first buy it; when you first move in.