The early hours

Well. My goodness. It has indeed been over 2-1/2 years since I last wrote here.

How did that happen?

Well, let's see. We had a baby, we moved three times (more?), and we finally settled down again and bought a house on my childhood island. And now I want to start writing again. The feel of the keys beneath my fingers is like therapy, or finding a long-lost friend, a friend who knows what to do and what to say, and who is there no matter the weather.

I want to capture early-morning sunrises while my family still sleeps. I am hoping that will be my time. The silence of those hours is interrupted only by the shrill songs of birds. The view from our house turns pink in the distance, illuminating trees, mountains, water, city skyline. Slowly the day begins its magical interplay between elements.

We live on an acre abutted against a 10-acre farmland parcel. We are surrounded by trees, although our front yard opens up quite a bit and brings in the sun and the view. I have been eagerly watching the deciduous trees form buds on their branches. I am trying to remember what our yard looks like when everything is leafed-out and the jagged outline of evergreens is offset by the lighter green maples.

I don't hear cars. Or people's voices. If I listen closely, I can hear the sound of the wind in the branches. It's mainly the birds who fill the hours with their song. Sometimes an eagle pierces the sky, sweeping above and circling its way toward Eagle Harbor where the boats bob in the water and blue herons stand meditatively.

I have been dreaming about this kind of peace. It helps that Brian just took Cora to school and Brooks is still sleeping, wearing off his night of coughing through an interrupted sleep. This quiet doesn't happen around here more than twice a day--when the children are asleep.

There is a walk in our neighborhood that I love to go on. It traverses several winding roads through rural grasslands and historic farmhouses. We see farms and chickens, horses and cows, big, well-tended gardens. The horse pictured above is on our walk. The kids always ask to stop and watch her eat.

And yesterday it was actually still light outside when Brian got home from work. As the days grow longer and milder, I feel us resurfacing, feeling more hopeful. These dark months are always difficult for me. I dread them each year, and yet when I am in the midst of them, it's easy for me to forget how much I miss the light. There is always such a focus on the sun--on its presence, or its coming, or its long-gone status. But just the light filtering through leaves, in whatever form it takes--amber, gray, or lemony--is enough to keep the darkness at bay.

I do notice a difference in how it feels. Living on an island. The city is lovely, full of lights and activity. But the light here is different. There's less cement and fewer buildings. The light filters through wet leaves and soaks strands of grass, bounces off blue water, and makes the world feel more alive. When I go running through stretches of farmland, or watch the kids biking on dirt trails, there is more freedom, more space to breathe.

More, hopefully, inspiration to create.

Writing again. Words, phrases. Small stories. Notes. Anything. It feels good to do this.