Outside the windows of my den the sky is grey; most of the trees are bare. The big beautiful maple tree in the front yard is standing there naked for the entire world to see. Not that long ago she wore blazing red but that dress is now discarded, a wrinkled heap on the lawn. I hear the furnace kicking on, forcing warm air into the rooms of my house, protection against the cold air that has begun to move into my neighborhood, pushing fall aside, and making way for the bitter cold of winter.
The littlebrowndog is curled into a warm ball on the chair nearby. His eyes opening every now and then to be sure I’m still here. I’ve noticed he doesn’t want to stay outside as long as he did in the warmer weather and that he runs to the back door as soon as he is convinced the grounds are secure. I’ve found his winter hoodie but do not look forward to the struggle of getting it on and off every time he goes outside.
Sitting here on the first day of daylight standard time it suddenly occurred to me that my cable TV company has reached into my house and turned a few clocks back. Part of me is thankful. Most times over the years when I forgot to turn the clock back there were no major problems. There was the time, however, when I was a real estate agent and woke to a ringing phone and another agent wanting to know why I wasn’t at a planned contract signing. That question was followed by the awkwardness of me explaining I had forgotten to adjust my clock.
On the other hand, the cable company reaching into my house is kind of creepy and I’m reminded of how incredulous I would have been if someone told me years ago such technology was coming down the pike.
As the clocks in my house change, I feel a shifting in my inner clock; a slowing down, a nestling in. My focus changes from living outside to moving inside. That part of me that resisted the end of summer and the onset of snow and cold weather has finally been seduced by the prospect of cozy weekend afternoons in my den writing all those stories that have been floating around in my head, while winter roars outside the windows. I look forward to the sensations of a blazing fire in the fireplace; hot feet, wood snapping as it’s eaten up by bright orange and red flames, the smell of burning wood that makes its way up my neighbors’ chimneys and floats by me on a crisp, cold winter night as the littlebrowndog and I stand in the backyard at the end of the day.
Now that I have given in to the notion that the arrival of winter is inevitable I have adjusted and I know that somewhere in the roots of my beautiful maple tree there is an understanding that the humiliation she now endures will be forgotten in the redressing that comes with spring.