"Strange to say, the luminous world is the invisible world; the luminous world is that which we do not see. Our eyes of flesh see only night. "-Victor Hugo
Jack paints the grass white, and trees watch on with naked arms icy with wonder. I look out and my breath whitens the pane. Inside the kettle whistles monotone, and fire glow casts itself over objects in the room. I see his eyes look on with wonder as the light plays in his eyes. He bangs on silver pots with his yellow toy. We long to go out, but we are in. We stay where the warmth is.
I weave stories, read, and look at books with him. He rubs his tongue like a little wave against the two white little chicklets of teeth. His little hand finds the patch of hair that he rubs when he's satisfied. We'd walk together but it's too cold. I long to go out, but I stay in. I stay where the warmth is.
"Home is not four walls and a roof," I remind myself. I long to go out, and I go. Alone with a cup of coffee and a computer I make lesson plans. A dog sits on my feet, and on cold days I long to stay in, but I go out to watch people. Home becomes a very fluid concept during these days. Grey is the color of loneliness, with snowflakes falling. Inside, I'd put up a tree with lights. I stay. I stay where the warmth is.
"The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step," they say. But do they know that each step takes courage? Each step leads closer to home, the one where I will stay. I long to go, but I am here. Memories fling themselves across the canvas of time. I'll stay where the warmth is living, breathing, while I grasp the life-giving hope of eternal spring. Contentment in the here and now, peace in the present. I long to go, but I'll stay where the warmth is.
1 day ago