I woke early the first day.  Perhaps it was the thunderous thump that shook the walls of the snow covered house; convinced a bear had hurtled through the downstairs window, I sprang up and searched the house for disturbance.  Finding none, I instinctively checked on my son; although 13, I still follow my maternal tug for ensuring he’s still breathing.

Uncovered and in 55 degrees, he must have thrown himself against the wall searching for warmth.  I kissed his forehead, pulled the flannel-encased down comforter back over his long body, and quietly closed the door.

The downstairs was dark and quiet,  the glow of the porch light hitting the snow providing the only illumination.  Quietly, I began to greet the new year with candle and coffee, journal and thoughts.

It wasn’t enough.  I”m approaching the fifth day of being stuck on the couch, felled with the teacher’s curse of sickness on vacation.  Self-pity set in.  Frustration.  Disappointment.  Lonliness.  Blame.  Pessimism.  Despair.

This is not the way to spend New Year’s morning.  Yet, I just couldn’t feel it-the optimism I knew everyone else was waking up with..

Mired in my thoughts, I glanced out the window for direction.  The sun, beginning to glow through the trees, tempted me.  I should walk to the lake, but it’s 5 degrees outside.  Maybe tomorrow.  Maybe next weekend.  There’s always another sunrise.

Turning to Facebook, I stumbled on Susan Tweit’s essay, Learning Forgiveness, and this quote about her dog, Isis:

“ Still, Isis was simply happy: to be in the world, to take walks and eat three meals a day, to snooze on her cozy bed. Her friendly good nature was so obvious that her beauty, not the scars she would carry for life, was the first thing people noticed when they met her.”

I need to be the person my dog thinks I am.  I need to walk out the door.

Tahoe Park Blvd.

My snow boots crunched on the icy road as I cautiously made my way down to the lake.  Simple tributes to children’s joy caught my eye, and reminded me of my own son, who had spent the dusk hours of New Years Eve tumbling around in the snow alone, creating his own happiness.

I knew what I would see: the sun was up, the sky blue.  I’d already missed the dawn, I chided myself.  I’ve greeted nearly 27 new years here.  The snow still kept the gate ajar.  The path still offered entrance, although showed signs of many travelers in the last few days.

But I was wrong.  As I crossed the slight knoll, the lake appeared unlike I’ve ever seen it-at first, I thought I was dreaming.  The mist swirled over the buoys like a magical cauldron  the waves lapped rhythmically, despite not a breath of wind.  And it was silent.

To experience this with me, watch the video:

I was alone, but what beauty, what strength, what power was before me.  No one else was witness to this spectacle, only me, only because I walked through the door.

I let go.   Fresh energy pumped through me.  I can start anew.  Today.  I leaned forward, let go of the past, and forgave myself in the image of the rising sun.

And it felt glorious.

Tahoe Park on Dwellable

Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

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Her face is turned toward the window, nestled on a deep feather pillow.  Long dark lashes flutter as I kiss her cheek, brushing back soft strands of hair from her forehead.  It is dark out, yet she will rise and greet another day.

His face is face up, eyes closed, arms thrown back over his head in the same position as when he slept as an infant.  I reach down to kiss the sweet spot between his jaw and neck, and he groans and pulls the covers tighter.  It is dark out, yet he will rise and greet another day.

Sleepily she pads downstairs, honey colored hair still in a messy braid.  Too early to eat, she sips cold orange juice as she pulls on long underwear and ski socks.  It is dark out, yet she will go and meet another day.

Groggily he pulls on his fuzzy black and white skull patterned bathrobe and gulps down fresh water.  He trods down the stairs, too full of chatter for such an early start.  It is dark out, yet he will go and meet another day.

She dresses quickly yet deliberately.  No worries about appearances, she thinks only of the snow that awaits her.  It is cold out, yet she will be brave and face another day.

He pulls on his layers, sweet grapefruit juice dribbling down his chin.  Thinking only of the countdown to Christmas, he hugs me in anticipation.  It is cold out, yet he will be brave and face another day.

Methodically she unscrews her ski helmet face bar in the dark lodge, preparing for the morning workout ahead of her.  Layer upon layer upon layer she bundles up and heads towards the lift, tousled braid whipping in the wind.  It is dawn out, and she gets to have another day.

Slowly he prepares for the snow, insisting on doing it alone.  His fuzzy brown head disappears beneath a royal blue helmet and goggles, contrasting the lime green and black of his jacket.  We kiss goodbye, my assurance I will be waiting for him when he returns.  It is dawn out, and he gets to have another day.

Yet as I sit by the window watching the sun crest the snow-covered hills, I cry for the mother and child who are apart, who will never feel their arms around each other again, and who cannot brush away each other’s tears.

It is bright out, and I get to have another day.

Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

More Posts - Website

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