All that matters.

You can't quite tell in this picture - but Dec's tiny hand was cozy in mine as we walked.

Today, we ventured across the Brooklyn Bridge to Brooklyn.

Then walked it again to NYC (with yummy Pizza & Strawberry ice cream in our bellies).

And today, this jaunt across the bridge and back? This is all that mattered.

I stood on the bridge at midnight,

As the clocks were striking the hour,

And the moon rose o'er the city,

Behind the dark church-tower.

I saw her bright reflection

In the waters under me,

Like a golden goblet falling

And sinking into the sea.

And far in the hazy distance

Of that lovely night in June,

The blaze of the flaming furnace

Gleamed redder than the moon.

Among the long, black rafters

The wavering shadows lay,

And the current that came from the ocean

Seemed to lift and bear them away;

As, sweeping and eddying through them,

Rose the belated tide,

And, streaming into the moonlight,

The seaweed floated wide.

And like those waters rushing

Among the wooden piers,

A flood of thoughts came o'er me

That filled my eyes with tears.

How often, oh, how often,

In the days that had gone by,

I had stood on that bridge at midnight

And gazed on that wave and sky!

How often, oh, how often,

I had wished that the ebbing tide

Would bear me away on its bosom

O'er the ocean wild and wide!

For my heart was hot and restless,

And my life was full of care,

And the burden laid upon me

Seemed greater than I could bear.

But now it has fallen from me,

It is buried in the sea;

And only the sorrow of others

Throws its shadow over me.

Yet whenever I cross the river

On its bridge with wooden piers,

Like the odor of brine from the ocean

Comes the thought of other years.

And I think how many thousands

Of care-encumbered men,

Each bearing his burden of sorrow,

Have crossed the bridge since then.

I see the long procession

Still passing to and fro,

The young heart hot and restless,

And the old subdued and slow!

And forever and forever,

As long as the river flows,

As long as the heart has passions,

As long as life has woes;

The moon and its broken reflection

And its shadows shall appear,

As the symbol of love in heaven,

And its wavering image here.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's The Bridge

I Come Into The Peace.

THE PEACE OF WILD THINGS

When despair for the world grows in me

and I wake in the night at the least sound

in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,

I go and lie down where the wood drake

rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.

I come into the peace of wild things

who do not tax their lives with forethought

of grief. I come into the presence of still water.

And I feel above me the day-blind stars

waiting with their light. For a time

I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

— Wendell Berry

Back in the Day

So much talk about snow coming and storms brewing lately. This winter has kept so many glued to the TV. The weather becomes the news about once every two weeks. When will the first flake fall? How many inches will we get? Snowdrifts and black ice... Snow days and cars off the road - oh my.

Standing in the pitch black forest up in Stowe one night last week (while waiting for the dogs to do their thing) the wind blew through the brittle winter trees. It was a beautiful sound. The dogs crunched through the snow. My slow heavy breathing grew slower and heavier.

It was a peaceful moment and all I could think about was back in the day.

Long before hype overshadowed a snowstorm, and forecasters one-upped each other with predictions and estimates - what did that cold wind blowing and first few drops of snow mean to people? Did they wonder how much would come, or how long the snow would last? Did they look to the threatening clouds and think, I wonder if I have enough milk? Or This is going to be a real pain in the neck to shovel.

Back when there were modest wooden homes nestled deep in the woods, way back to when teepees dotted the horizon...what did a snowstorm bring with it?

I picture people looking up to the sky with a grateful indifference then sauntering back to the coziness of their home wrapped up in layers of fur and sipping steaming cups of tea for days on end.

If you listen to the cold wind blowing, that is what it sounds like it is telling us all to do.

Relax.

What is that sound?!

Oh. Wait.

I think I recognize it.

It is the sound of two exhausted and over excited sleeping babes.

It is the sound of snow falling.

And of the furnace churning in the basement.

It is the sound of creaky walls, settling floors and the humming of the fridge.

And of my fingertips typing.

Snowflakes dancing?

I hear them!

On a winter's night.

Fingers typing?

I hear them!

Every creak in this house is audible.

Every rattle and hum is peaceful.

What is that sound?!

It is the sound of silence.

Silence, you are very welcome indeed.