Snow Day

We've been hibernating all morning in a house transformed by snow and blanket-covered windows into a charming cave (I was tempted to say cosy cave, but the chill and draftiness won't be forgotten so easily). Reading, listening to Christmas music, cooking, cleaning, catching up on letter writing and bills, listening to Lex grumble at his online chess opponents... well, it's been lovely.
     Days like this simply don't come often enough- days of concentrated quiet, peace, and cheer. Certainly, tomorrow isn't likely to be another of the same if we drive to Kansas City as planned. So it's a good lesson in contentment- accepting to be luxuriously satisfied by the present moment, with no grumbling about its brevity. It strikes me that pleasure- especially  the transient pleasure of a day which magically falls somehow into perfect harmony with itself- is exquisite precisely because of its fragility, because of the knowledge lurking behind it that it may be shattered from moment to moment.
    It's impossible to extend the volume of a fine, rich broth merely by adding gallons of water to it. You've more liquid, certainly, but it isn't at all the same thing you began with- the savor is lost. Rest and comfort must be made of the same stuff- the more you have of them, the weaker their flavor.
   Days like this should be held to the light like diamonds to be admired. Such glittering white perfection without- such homeliness and security within...
   How wonderful to have a few hours of intense peace, boiled down to an almost impossible deliciousness, undiluted by any threat of longevity!