Since last week we’ve endured four serious snow storms in Maine. What started as a slight dusting on frozen terrain grew to 78 inches in areas. Here in the mid-coast, where I live, it’s up to my waist.
I thought I’d start digging out, and walked into a drift to make a path for the heating oil people to access the fuel pipe.
In less than a second I was captured, immobile; I was a round peg in a round hole, the hole just one size too small.
After a moment of terror (maybe I shouldn’t have done this when I was alone), I wriggled and wiggled my way out, gracelessly crawling on my hands and knees.
I made it back to inside, my glorious wood stove, my sheltering house.
Later, driving home near midnight after a particularly fruitful writers’ group, I was thinking about editing my memoir.
I lost traction on a curve, and the car slid sideways toward a wall of snow.
I did what an old Mainer told me years ago to do — hit the gas and speed into the skid like a warrior, teeth-gritted, a war-whoop in my head.
I pulled out of the skid, exhilarated.
I realized I’d been in the drifts — I needed to focus, approach my memoir head-on. Fearlessly.
At home, the full Snow moon illuminated the white everywhere.
I stayed outside for a long time in the blue-tinged light, eyes raised to the sky, full of stars, birthing a mantra:
Intention. Focus. Clarity. Action.
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