Simple things comfort me on these days when I’m still weary from travel, and longing for ordinariness: plucking a jar of canned tomatoes off the shelf in the cold storage room, the sound of a snow shovel scraping on a driveway, the contented hum of the furnace in the early morning.
I wake early—too early, most would say—but take advantage of the early hours to finish reading a book I’ve been enjoying. On cue, at 4:30am, the Aerogarden switches on in the kitchen and slivers of light squeeze through the closed bedroom door. I think of the tiny herb seedlings that are just starting to appear in it. It won’t be long before winter gives way, and I breathe the heady aroma of seed starting mix as I drop tiny tomato seeds in pots.
But for now, I rest in winter: curled up under a blanket with a book, scribbling at my writing desk, tapping out words or tending to things that must be tended to at my get-stuff-done desk. I wrestle against commitment, preferring to hunker down in the peace and comfort of home while I have the opportunity.