The coffee this morning is particularly good, and I creep slowly back to health. It is unseasonably cold for this time of year. But climate change works. I will resume my walking schedule today, nothing else makes me happier in the winter. Max, the dog, will like it, too.
The unicorn meat eating cats tend to howl at the door about 9 o'clock in the evening. I suppose they have not adjusted to winter, yet. They carry Spring in their hearts year round, and I warm myself on that fire through the coldest and darkest of months.
But our Saturnalia is just around the corner, Christmas, the Festival of Lights. I have a neighbor that put up their tree the day after Halloween. I have never been so glad to see a Christmas tree in my life. It's all white, and shines from their front picture window every evening, a beacon in the dark.
We are assuming the bear has gone back to her winter den. Our garbage remains whole, and bagged. I held her presence as some kind of miracle, but do not miss almost running into her, night after night. Although she did add an air of mystery that fits the season.
I am happy to be writing again. I am glad for the routine, on which death and life have intruded. Oddly, I embrace my medications. They, too, serve a purpose and are part of the routine. I have extra medications at this time, but swallow them dutifully, a good patient. Or I inhale them, and think it's about the time to think about giving up smoking.
I admit that I am frightened by the brush with death that passed over me, and landed on someone else close by. I am almost 50. Although I remind myself that I could live to be truly old, and perhaps, my greatest accomplishments are ahead of me. I certainly hope that my best writing is ahead of me.
But, for now, the winter sun shines, and there is a promise of snow. And one tree of lights shines where many will come to be.