Home is peaceful, and the perfect place to finish a story. My parents live in the hills, six to eight miles from anything that might deserve the name city. The house is in the cup of two hills, a cradle betwixt two higher ridges, and a forest of evergreens, maples, oaks, pines, and aspens surround each side, with a small stream passing through the forest in no-man's-land, which Phil and I often explored when we were young. When I am at the highest points of the area, I can see all the way to the Olympic mountains, purple and snow-tipped on the western coast by the ocean, and all the way east to the cascades.
Even just walking around outside, the brisk air seems cleaner, lighter (not just because I'm above sea level a ways).
Tonight we lit the chanukah lights, played bananagrams, listened as my father played piano (trans siberian orchestra - mad russian's christmas and ukrainian bell carol). Even in the darkest seasons, being at home brightens my life immeasurably. As we say the chanukah prayers, my spirit is lifted up and rejuvenated. It's a spiritual rekindling, and I can smell the snow in the air. They say that snow level is only 6000 feet, and dropping below 500 this weekend possibly.
The story is finished as of tonight. I wrote ~5500 words today, and I think words are numb to me right now. I haven't been reading very much this month, but simply knowing that I'm almost finished with this marathon, I: picked up The Story of Art and read the first three chapters; bought a Mary Oliver poetry book as a celebration present to myself for finishing (half price books sale!); checked out five books at the library; bought four books; and bought a jacket in case we go climbing mountains and it gets cold.
I'm so ready for December.
Thanks everyone for bearing with me as I disappeared this month, and canceled every hangout possible so I could writewritewrite.
Happy Chanukah - Happy Thanksgiving
Rest well, friends.
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