Being snowed in on this New York snowy day is like being tucked in, as the quietest, softest, plumpest of white downy blankets descends onto you in very...
It's like there's someone greater than all of us hovering somewhere high above that outside my window powdered tableau, making the sweetest most soothing of lullaby "shhhhhh" sounds.
The air is full and hearty and goes down as easy as pie.
It's gulpable really and all a part of this mad, wickedly delightful conspiracy.
The radio is a never-ending one-way discussion sending vital, musical messages like the once upon a time telegraph keys of once upon a time.
The TV, which seems flatter and more indifferent than usual, sits, aloof and ignored in the corner, mumbling mindlessly like a dotty old fool who has nowhere to go.
And yet is still feels important.
It's as if I could, as if suddenly commanded by the generals of my imagination or fueled by the dancers of whimsy, reach deep inside that babbling, incoherent screen and extract a handful of nuggets:
The stories that simply have to be told.
But I resist the temptation, because today I seem to be able to control the stampede of electrons of my life and I can make all the magic that I want, go wherever I want, simply by closing my eyes.
My coat stands at the ready, on high alert, ready to protect and defend. My shoes sit like sleeping dogs near the door, their invisible tails wagging like metronomes.
Life, which is always under construction, is simply closed for the day and I have to fight the constant, ongoing, insistent urge to get something done.
The thought that I won't be productive today diminishes the richness of all this bounty because the actual truth of the day is: there is always tomorrow and the tomorrow after that and even the one that is a month from now and years and light years beyond that.
This is, in the end, the formal declaration: the poor man's vacation, sanctioned by that perfect travel agency: the elements.
It's a pardon, a full reprieve, brought to us by nature, hand delivered like a good neighbor's gift basket, by someone who adores us and thinks that we are perfect just the way we are.
It is time to receive and not give and that is perfectly fine this snowy sermon says. It is time to rest your weary head, your tired soul, your wounded heart and lie on this snow carpet whose every single fiber is a single flake that is every bit as unique as you.
This is the day where you finally....finally.... get to hide and maybe even wonder and linger like barefoot lovers deep inside the meadow of your own thoughts as you battle that surrender to the undertow; that gnawing, restless feeling that who you are and what you have is never enough.
For this, my fellow New Yorkers not the reckoning. It is the day of holy, sanctified indulgence.
And when you finally get that and you really understand that this armistice is real, legitimate really, you finally...finally get to do what you rarely if ever get to do.
You get to live wildly, impulsively, joyfully and most importantly: fully.
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