The Garden is Sleeping

The title of tonight's blog was inspired by Alanna who looked out the window into the dark garden and turned to me and said "Mimi, the garden is sleeping!" I thought that this little two year old had made such a profound observation of the landscape. Though there is not snow yet (this photo was taken last year sometime in my garden) the garden is indeed sleeping. We should take our cues from the garden and the animals and hibernate for the winter, instead of traveling about in the cold and snow like a bunch of insane people. I for one would rather hibernate all winter in front of the fireplace and in my studio (which I keep very warm and cozy) and dream........

I had a house full of family for 8 hours today and I survived it. Somewhere between Christmas and New Year I host the yearly family get together. My sister and her family come from Westchester, my brother and his wife from the Boston area. My mother won't leave the nursing home anymore, and since I am the oldest and centrally located, I carry on family tradition here. It is with mixed emotion that I do it. One brother is very sick and does not come (which is difficult as he is sick by choice), and I have not seen my son this holiday season yet. I fear he is not well on many levels. My parents are either dead or very disabled. I get very stressed before they arrive. Other friends of mine suffer similar fates; the holidays can be a stew of sadness, loss, loneliness, joy, celebration, and love, all wrapped into one big ball of emotional twine.

I have poured myself the end of one of the bottles of wine but it is not enough to relax me before bed. I drank very little as I had to be on all day. I am toying with opening the Patron, but I am not sure tequila will mix with the wine very well.

I have decided to open more wine. I sit here sipping it, brows furrowed, and have locked myself behind the French door in my sun room where the computer is. I cannot write with Larry milling around, and have kicked him out as he keeps coming in and out and trying to talk to me. My writing and art time is very sacred to me, and I dislike anyone being in my space when I am creating.

David Darling is playing his cello in the background, a quiet sad tune slips under the door into my room. I sit back in my chair and stare at the screen trying to find words to describe my emptiness. All I keep hearing is "the garden is sleeping" and I too want to be dormant until the warm sun returns to warm the earth again. I try to envision the sun enveloping my body and filling me with warmth and light. I cannot do it. I wish I had lit a fire; I would take a blanket and lay in front of it, baking in the heat and the light.

I will settle for the bed. The timer has turned off the lights in the room leaving me in the dark.

The garden is sleeping.

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