We woke to snow this morning, pulled up the shades and got back in bed, letting the silver light fill the room. In spite of predictions of a change to sleet and rain, the snow kept up. We went for a walk, the cold wind numbing our faces the way the last week of new loss has left us feeling numb and dumb and clumsy. I don’t even know what I did yesterday, but I do know I managed to grocery shop and cook and work on a poem and go to Yogurt Poets last night. Is that enough for one day?
Then I went for a ski, my first ski of the season, so I said a Shehechiyanu blessing (for more on that see this previous post) and thought of Eric’s mother. Eric always said a Shehechiyanu when he did something for the first time each year — like the first chance to cross-country ski or the first kayak of spring. It wasn’t until after he died that I found out Eric learned that from his mother, Natalie. We were at a Passover Seder together three years ago and she talked about how often she says the Shehechiyanu blessing and all the opportunities there are in a year to bless the return to a favored place or activity.
Now Natalie is in a hospital, recovering from a bad bout of shingles. More worry. But back to skiing, to being in the woods, my tracks leading back into the trees, snow draping the branches and quieting the inner chatter. Blessed.