Edith Sitwell once wrote: "Winter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth, for the touch of a friendly hand and for a talk beside the fire: it is the time for home."
There's comfort in the blanket of snow. Snug. Warm. Sometimes, it seems as though we could hibernate the whole winter long--if we had a stack of good books.
Lewis Carroll wrote: "I wonder if the snow loves the trees and fields, that it kisses them so gently? And then it covers them up snug, you know, with a white quilt; and perhaps it says 'Go to sleep, darlings, till the summer comes again.'"
It's the time for stories and memories... So much is hidden, obscured from view; but that only gives us the license to let our imaginations run wild (perhaps too mad for words). If our stories are ever to become a reality, we need time to simmer and dream and think--just let the mind wander over everything and nothing.
Andrew Wyeth wrote: "I do an awful lot of thinking and dreaming about things in the past and the future - the timelessness of the rocks and the hills - all the people who have existed there. I prefer winter and fall, when you feel the bone structure of the landscape - the loneliness of it, the dead feeling of winter. Something waits beneath it, the whole story doesn't show."
Are you snow-bound, dreaming? Do you wish you were stuck in the snow? It would seem that the recent winter storms (Sandy, etc) put much of the romance of winter out the minds of many...
In the chill, there's this (by Truman Capote): "It snowed all week. Wheels and footsteps moved soundlessly on the street, as if the business of living continued secretly behind a pale but impenetrable curtain. In the falling quiet there was no sky or earth, only snow lifting in the wind, frosting the window glass, chilling the rooms, deadening and hushing the city."
Kellie Ellmore said, "Winter is much like unrequited love; cold and merciless."
Jean Webster penned these line: "Is it snowing where you are? All the world that I see from my tower is draped in white and the flakes are coming down as big as pop-corns. It's late afternoon - the sun is just setting (a cold yellow colour) behind some colder violet hills, and I am up in my window seat using the last light to write to you."
I write to you... I hope these final days of November--in the midst of winter--find you warm and comforted... wherever you are!