The sunshine is deceitful, as it smothers us in warmth through the windowpane, the wind threatens to burn an icy finger through the glass and tear us in two. Another day of unbearable cold, a mysterious lethargy forms over me and I pick up the phone to call work and say that I’m not coming in.

Then I sit. No energy or resourcefulness. I catch up on reading, cuddling a purring cat to share the chilly sunshine spots. Clear and unbroken, the snow beckons, the cross-country skis lay forgotten in the arctic cold, the golden light outside playing strands of color across the floor and I resist opening the door to feel it’s light on my face. The cat burrows in to my chin, pressing his head to me as if to say ‘This is where you belong.’

I experiment in the kitchen, turn on the oven, roast a few potatoes and make a quick bread in my cast-iron skillet. It works, and it doesn’t, but I eat what cooked well and poke through the rest of it, sunshine warm on my back and the hum of the oven keeping time with the furnace exhaust that floats by the window. From the chimneys across the yard, white puffs billow, hang in the air close to the rooftops. A few tornados of snow kick across the blank white canvas. The ice on the edges of the windows hasn’t even melted yet and it’s after noon, now. I try not to think of the animals out there in this cold.

Brownies come together in a pan, thick, swirls of chocolate, butter and sugar spun together, dark chocolate chunks melting within, a blue flame coaxing flavor and magic alchemy. After their fragrant turn in the warm oven, the scent rises to the ceilings, filling the house and chasing off the chill of the day. The potatoes rest on the baking sheet, skins wrinkling as they cool. A memory flashes through my mind of sitting bathed in summer sunshine on the faded redwood steps outside, birdsong keeping company with the wind through the leaves, and me, dipping my fork in a bowl of fried potatoes, salient with smoked salt and grinds of sharp pepper. Once more, I watch the streams from my neighbors chimney, smoke clinging low in the sky.

The sky is a cold, icy and brilliant blue, and the furnace hums on, and on, and on.

April thoughts:

The garden plot where I grow my food is free of it’s snow cover. This makes me deliriously happy. It also makes me far too eager to pick up my shovel, and all I would get for that is the ‘tink tink’ against the frozen ground underneath. I didn’t transfer the two Peony plants last fall. I should probably trim back the Japanese Lilac this Spring. There’s another garden patch that was overcome with weed last year, where my Clematis grow and I need to fix that. I want the fire pit to drain and dry out so I can burn wood that stirs my senses with it’s deep, woodsy smell. I want that flattened grass to come back, the patch that’s been buried under all the snow we’ve pushed off the patio all Winter long.

I want my patio chairs back. I want to crack open that one amazing bottle of white wine that I have on hand, anticipating the very first beautifully warm day that I can sit there, sipping liquid gold elixir in celebration of Spring. Last year, I sat outside on March 17th, in a skirt and alabaster legs, in awe of the warmth around me.

March certainly came in like a lion, and most assuredly didn’t go out like a lamb. We went for a walk on Easter, the last day of March this year, and my earlobes were numb from the wind. My thighs burned and were bright pink when we got home. That’s not lamb-like.

The light changes daily, stays longer, grows warmer. Morning chill still penetrates the windows, but the afternoon sun drowses me, lulling me to think I can shed layers, pull off the socks and absorb its rays. Still not there yet. The cats sit on the steps, eyes half shut to the softly blazing sky, nose high to the wind as the endless parade of Spring dances across their faces. I lift my own nose high in the air and can smell the earth awakening. It stirs in me the need for change. I place my hand on the warmth of the brick underfoot, delight in birdsong, watch carefully for buds on trees, the first green shoots pushing through last Fall’s remnants, the Crocus and Poppy rising from their Winter sleep to wave in the breeze as if saying Hello.

April is sweet and soft and perfectly Springtime. It’s a slow and delicious transition to light and less, to green and storms, thunder and rain. April is soft earth rejoicing in renewal; cold mornings and warm afternoons and long walks in the twilight after dinnertime. It is promise and hope and redemption and the finest reward after a long Winter. There is nothing quite like April.

I jolt from a deep sleep. Again.

Intently, with heart pounding, I listen to the night for the noise, for anything that warranted a shock from unconscious to wakefulness but I hear nothing. Again. Now I’m awake. But I’m sleepy too and the brain begins churning. Because it just can’t seem to stop.

There is a stirring at my feet, as the cat sighs, snuggles in deeper in the chill. I feel the internal warmth begin and I push back the blanket. Stick out a leg. The sweat rises on my face slightly and although I’m hot, my flesh is cold in the night. It passes. I pull the blanket back on. My husband breathes quietly. Evenly. I’m glad he sleeps soundly. The wind hits the window, angry in it’s late Winter rampage. The air in the room feels cold and the furnace is silent.

The boy bangs the wall in his room across the hall as he turns in his too-small bed, and I think yet again that we need to get him something larger.

I think of the soreness in my shoulder that kept my workout the night before to a minimum. I think of the painful lump in my chest that scares me to pieces and the doctor visit in the morning and why something that’s likely no big deal has such power over me. But then, it could be a big deal. My heart races as the thoughts consume me and I pray for peace, feeling it wash over me. I’m thankful for Him.

I think of the Hoya plants in my sunroom, with the aphids that I can’t get rid of, and that I’ll likely have to throw them out and start over with new plants. Tiny new plants to raise. I can’t even recall how long I’ve had them. Longer than my near 19-year old child has been alive. No soap, no washing, no nothing relieves them of their pest. They tentatively begin a new leaf growth, only to be attacked by the tiny yellow bugs, forcing them to stay as they are. They can’t be happy.

I think about Pinterest and how I hate it. How a simple website can drive inferior feelings in to me harder than any words could ever do. I think of longing and want, and how so many ‘pin’ things to boards instead of seeking them to pin to their very hearts. To keep forever. They gaze at photos, dream of ideas, places, stuff stuff stuff. We all need less stuff.

I think of my friends. My saving Grace. Love pours through my tired soul. They fill me up and I could never explain how. Or why.

I think of the dust that settles in my home. The cleaning I hate to do. I think of the chores of daily life and the days that I struggle with taking care of myself and taking care of my life. I hate how they pull me in opposite ways. I hate how I simply turn my back on both, sometimes and disappear. In a magazine. In my blog reader. Seeking the pins for my heart that I can’t find.

I think of glorious food. And I think of un-glorious food. That which feeds my body and those not so great items that feed a part of me that still scrambles for a foothold in my life. The past. The present. One life of excess that lives no longer against the means of health and wellness that I know supports my 49 years so much better. My mind knows. My heart knows. My stomach has refused to forget.

I have no idea how long I’ve been awake. But I’m not awake and I’m not asleep. I wait, hoping for the warm drowsy feel to begin coursing through me, pushing me back to unconsciousness. I start to think about coffee and I want to get up and make a pot. It’s 4:30am. The furnace kicks in, barking back the cold wind outside and a few moments later, a quiet ‘Meow’ breaks the silent night. I can get this one to snuggle down and relax, as it’s too early to wake Mike but the furnace is the calling card that tells this feline that morning has come. He climbs on my chest, purring and lays down. His heavy weight is soothing, purring a rhythmic rise and fall that hypnotizes me, his breath falling against my chin and the drowsiness begins.

We both doze. We both wake. He moves to my legs, draping his 16 pounds down, pressing me to the mattress, helping me even though he doesn’t know it, and we both sleep again.

When Mike finally rouses to the more insistent ‘Good morning!’ meows, I ask him to close the bathroom door against the rising morning. I need to sleep. It’s my morning to sleep as late as I want. And after the nights’ ruminations, I need this. He closes the door and escorts the cats downstairs to begin their day.

The sleep washes over me and I’m out.

I have a beast living inside me, as I suspect we all do. The thing is, no one talks about the beast, their beast and I think everyone tries to quell it’s ugliness. But when one person says ‘I have this part of me that I hate.’ then others can sigh with relief and think better of their own beastliness and suddenly, one person’s beast releases the chains on another.

My beast rises from the ugly part of me that I’ve worked so hard to move away from. I shudder when I recall how my life used to be, with rage and selfishness and ghastly behaviors. I ached when I remember how lonely and empty it was, that the beast chased away the light and goodness and anyone resembling a friend or companion. I didn’t know how to be a good friend (and I worry that I still don’t….) and I grabbed a tight hold with beastly claws on to anyone who came too close because I was so desperate for someone to say ‘Hey, you’re not that bad.’ when I didn’t even believe it myself.

Or worse, when someone came in to my beastly world, I’d hide the ugly down so deep that I’d be afraid of it, afraid of what it would do if I let it out and that fear would push me far, far away from any good, any light that tried to pierce the shield around me. And I’d hide, retreat and stay quiet, pulling away so as not to awaken the fury. The only result of that, once again, was empty rooms, and heart.

We know so little how to remodel ourselves when young and inexperienced. We think a few hastily made decisions are good, then we pass a few years in our new self-house and suddenly realize how barren it is, how the echo of ourselves fills the hollow rooms and we realize we had no idea how to make it beautiful. But after so many misaligned decisions, too many chances taken that never pan out, it can become a staggering weight to bear that feels far too heavy and we think we’ll never see light through the boarded up windows. And the air in our self-house grows stagnant and old, we sink to the floor, eyeing the door, afraid.

And I’m so thankful to the years of transformation, to the patience of my own heart to look deep within and say ‘This just isn’t right.’ and for the strength to raise a hammer and begin to tear down all the ugly walls and bad paint and poor renovations, to uncover the windows so the light can shine in, and the breeze blow, to remove all that was done in haste and indecision over the years, messes made to try and cover other messes and ugliness. We all work so hard to architect our lives before we even know what we’re doing, and some of us spend years learning over and again of how little we actually knew. It never works to paint over our broken souls.

Still, part of that past beast remains, a hair trigger inside that rages and bites hard and hurts, clawing the closest person near me, desperate for what it wants or needs. I’m often startled at my own rage when it pours from me, pouncing on anyone within arm’s range with it’s ire, surprise and hurt filling their eyes. I’m a five year old again, selfish and ugly and screaming to be heard. I’m shocked and saddened at myself, again, because when I look around at my current self-house, I see more beauty than I ever thought I’d own. I see what my hands have done to the walls, the floors and the decor, how lovingly they’ve restored all that was old and dysfunctional. And I think I’ve chased the beast away permanently.

But apparently, I haven’t. The beast still pounces, unannounced, unexpected; lurking in a dark corner or under the floorboards, it’s still there in spite of my renovations, leaving me to wonder if I can ever do enough to tame it for good.

I’m not the best at being patient for something I really want, but lately (as in, getting older) I’ve realized that there within me lies a vast ability to be able to sit back and await a perfect timing of sorts, a coming together of all the angles and planes and equations that make up the exact picture in your head that you wish to share with the world.

And sometimes, just resting in quiet, re-arranging images in your head about what you want, what you see for yourself and those aspects of you that you share with the world seems more necessary than anything else. Stepping back. Taking a break. Making new assessments. Planning, or simply just dreaming. I’ve been working through some of those very images regarding this blog, a new design and direction, and in the waiting and the quiet, I’ve gotten a sort of clarity that rarely happens in haste.

It happens with a lot of people during the turn of the calendar to a new year. We all plan for goals and unlimited potential when January shows it’s face; we plot the next 12 months in bullet points and gym memberships and pantry staples and menu ideas. We eagerly share our ‘Best Of’ 2012, and openly state our intent for 2013, then we leap. I’ve had lots of calendar changes in my life, and leapt more times than I can count and what I’ve discovered in that leaping, with a fistful of papers filled with bullet points and vague options of personal change is that without clear directions and plans and focus, those bullet points make me land awfully hard. Like flat on my butt hard and that stings. I think ‘But why didn’t this work?’ and yet, I know.

This space has been quiet for a while, and yet, behind the curtains, it’s teeming with life. It’s like entering a darkened auditorium, an empty stage played out, but you know that back stage is vast amounts of scurrying and busyness and plans that are coming true. It’s taken a long time to rehearse the play, but very soon, the curtain will rise and it will begin.

That’s about to happen, friends. We’re close. There’s been some rehearsals, some re-writes, some script changes and costume design updates. There’s been a lot of dreaming. Lots of proverbial pictures have passed through my mind, some have been discarded and others stick around. The dress rehearsal is close and I’m so thankful for your patience, as well as my own. I am hoping the new direction and design will be a good one, for all of us. It feels pretty good so far.