I stumbled on this poem by Ralph Waldo Emerson - The Snow Storm. I'm not going to post the whole thing, just the opening lines.
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hill and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end.
Part of me wishes, very much, that I was somewhere where the snow is falling today. I've been very productive this week, and now today, I just want to lay about and doze and read and sip hot cocoa and write long letters to people I miss.
I don't write letters anymore. I used to be very good about it. I wrote my mother and friends that moved away. I wrote love letters to old lovers. I wrote apologies to people I wronged. I wrote angry letters to people who harmed me. I didn't always send these letters, but something about the act of putting pen to paper released me somehow. Now I journal - which is still a good thing, but it's not as focused on a letter. And I blog, but that is even more general. I can't say here things that I wouldn't want revealed about me, things that I'm ashamed of or frightened of.
Maybe I'll start writing letters instead of simple writing journal entries. Focus my thoughts toward one person and say what I need to say, for myself and for them. (You see, I'm a firm believer in the power of the mind. And what needs to be communicated for the good of all does indeed find a way out.)
Well, anyway, I'm feeling terribly lazy today and wish I had a reason to lay about and let my mind wander.