The snow sifts from rafters and powders the rooms . . .
It is early morning and I am passing through the rooms of the house, transposing a bit from Miss Dickinson’s poem 291 on snow: It sifts from leaden sieves, It powders all the wood. . . The last boxes of glittering gold and fire-bright red of Christmas were carried up to the attic last night, and someone said, "I feel so sad."
But I love what remains in the rooms -- the white and silver of winter.
The idea of preserving a bit of the decorations came from a friend. Each January the red ornaments and ribbons are whisked away, and frosty blue lights and blankets of snow are tucked between the tree branches and garland limbs, and snowmen and snow-women grow on tabletops and mantelpieces.
And then my friend opens her house for a Winter Party.
I love the spirit of that idea, don’t you? Embracing the seasons of life. Allowing winter to be winter and to do what it has been called to do.
A winter home, muffled from all sound by the “alabaster wool,” roof snug against the impeding weather, is where families and friends gather, nestled against the storms and biting cold, warmed by the fire and hot drinks, linked by the games and conversations that grow deep roots.
Not unlike what is happening outside in the snow-covered and silent garden.
Not unlike what is happening when held in the palm of God.
When it snows, she has no fear for her household;
for all of them are clothed in scarlet.~ Proverbs 31:21