I really ought to fulfill whatever promise I made to you all in my past post. That is, if you, dear readers, are not all in my imagination. But I really want to tell you a story about the snow. There isn't time now -- I have to go pick up my son at school, and we have the shopping to do and dinner to throw on the stove, and all those mundane home-keeping tasks-- but I want to tell you about it, because it's one of those stories that is part of who I believe myself to be.
Someday I will tell you how I lay on my belly in the snow, at the bottom of the hill. I'll tell you about the redness of my cheeks and the whiteness of the snow, and of the tangle of trees and brush around me in that palm-sized patch of woods. I'll tell you about the game my friend and I were playing as we sledded that day. And I'll tell you about the deer, how they leapt across the smooth snow, so close to me, just in front of the woods.
But not today, I haven't time...
Hi. That's me. I write, sometimes, about parenting, storytelling, and about living a life with stories.