East of the Lake

The end of November shudders hard. Winds unhinge what is left as snow-thunder claps a resounding approval. At 9 a.m. it is still too dark to read in the house. Leaves continue to fall with each gust; it reminds me of birthing pangs – waves of contractions moving across the landscape because they have no otherwise. We are left with only winter.

I look out the window and try not to get caught up in the falling snow. But then again, it is not the snow that sews me under blankets and into couches. The infinite gray is a slab of impenetrable weight that suffocates every forward moving intention. I lie down unmovable.

Lake Michigan has a certain generosity that cannot be turned off. In warm months, the great lake invites and heals. In frigid months, it gives moisture to the winds of Chicago and downdrafts of Canada. A leaden belt forms to cinch the mitten. According to the news, only 18% of available sunlight was observable last month for those of us rooted here. In this place. East of the lake.

Life pushes on, with and without desires. Children grow and dogs age. Christmas looms and so does the greenhouse work. Despite the weight, I do have gratitude. And I do collect blessings, like sea glass, to hold up to the light. It is just that I do not have another life to give, so feeling paralyzed for any of it carries with it a sense of purposelessness that I cannot override. I am gripped by days, enduring hours, weathering minutes.

It's not forever, for I shall make potato leek soup and grilled cheese sandwiches and a small salad. My favorite songs will play. I will follow my dog with her nose to the ground, captured by some invisible trail leading her onward, eyes yet looking up. Ears pricked. Waiting for the longer, warmer days further down the path.