Early December in Oregon, and it's blowing hard outside. Later we'll get some more rain.
I'm settled into my green rocking chair--the one I bought new when David was a baby--in the corner of the living room. Lamplight falls over my shoulder. I just finished grading the last--well, almost the last--stack of papers.
The refrigerator hums in the kitchen, the clock on the wall ticks steadily. In the basement, the furnace is rumbling to life.
Pretty soon I'll grade the (late) Hamlet essays that were turned in today. I've promised myself to make a batch of coconut macaroons to take to school tomorrow for my seniors, who are reading A Doll's House (the main character eats macaroons and they are a symbol for deceit in Ibsen's play). Load the dishwasher, wrap up tomorrow's lesson plan.
I am nourished by the quiet. The glow of book jackets in our little library, the living room populated with furniture from my grandparents' homes, the crisp green and white bannister on the stairs.
There are some things that aren't quite right in my world. My mother had a difficult day in memory care. I learned today that a dear friend who has been battling cancer will start hospice care this weekend. It's somewhere around week 6 of a difficult personal disagreement.
But there is this: the storm outside, the clocking marking its time, this quiet peace in my home.