But Sarah's heart was full. It was as full as when the sounds of her own children had filled her house. - in "The Mitten Tree" by Candace Christiansen
Everywhere I look people are writing about the silence, the quiet hush of these snow-covered days. Upstairs alone for a few brief moments, the fluffy, white duvet on our bed fills me with longing to be covered also, to lay down under a blanket of white. Two full walls of windows fill the room with sunlight so inviting, but I turn and head downstairs to the kitchen, the heart of our home.
Snow brings silence, peace, stillness, they say, but our house hums like a hive on these winter days. School is canceled or delayed and four little bodies fill every corner with motion and noise, the steady, spinning, thriving sound of energy bottled for a time.
A whole beautiful day of giant fluffy flakes passes without a moment to pause.
No sitting quietly by the window with a steaming mug.
No time to marvel much as the setting sun paints the landscape pink with long steady strokes.
We twirl through these days like so many snowflakes falling, carried along by the weight of who we are. It would be a lie if I were to claim an unwavering contentment about this – about the noise and motion, the constant clutter and chaos.
But I’m learning to love what is rather than longing for what is not and that in itself offers a silence of sorts, a settling-in to the falling, swirling journey of these days. I know now that this too shall pass.
Piled on the couch with my boys, reading "The Mitten Tree," it comes to me: the silence and the sound, the stillness and the humming hive, they are but two sides of an ever-changing coin. In welcoming one, I prepare myself to welcome - embrace - the other; the key to contentment and joy is hidden in the surrender to what is, rather than in the longing for some preferred alternative.