In the middle of what our local media are referring to, variously, as "Snowapalooza," "Snowmageddon," and "Snowpocalypse," I am face to face with a personal demon. An evil inner voice has come to seduce my inner snow angel with promises of productivity, self-improvement, and achievement. I could be getting so much done! What better time to start to dig out the basement, to declutter the kitchen, to catch up on the health insurance and medical bills mess?
Fortunately, I still have two of my children at home, and my three-year-old grandson living just blocks away. So if my soul is in too weakened a state to recognize the mandate to play and re-create, delivered as a cold, white wallop, they are here to remind me.
How did I get to a place where a statewide--nay, regional--snow day puts me in a state of distress as I stew over how I'm going to get everything done? I remember a time, not so very long ago, when my heart did a little dance at the thought of the world stopping for a day; when I stopped too, happily, willingly. Snow days were for baking, maybe. For building snowmen, and forts, and having snowball fights. For movies, puzzles, board games. If I left the house at all, it was for a sledding hill, or to walk in the sparkling streets.
My son, who I raised to know better than me, it seems, has just commanded me to let go today, and to accept the gift of being snowed in. My grandson wants Nana to help build "snow persons." And so, although phones and email can penetrate our fortress, I'm going to follow the lead of our local schools, libraries, and coffee shops--and close for business. Just for today. Cocoa, anyone?