Monday, January 2, 2012
On January 1st, I did the observation but didn't write about it. It's actually a common observation of mine, but it affects me so deeply that I feel I need to write it down.
January 1: I close my eyes, and the sound of the heavy rainfall beats on the roof above me. I know there isn't much insulation, and the room is cold. I am buried beneath my blankets, warm and safe but vitally aware of the violence of the elements just beyond the wooden skin protecting me. I can hear several kinds of water, in fact: the actual rainfall itself, the secondary bounces as it hits the roof, the dripping of excess water off the eaves, the lashing sound as the raindrops skitter past the trees that lean toward my room, and even the splash of water on mud far below my room at the back of the house. I love this sound, and it makes my heart swell with joy.
January 2: I can smell the wood cooking in the other room. Some of our wood is rather wet, and we're drying it on the top of the wood stove before putting it in to burn, and it gives off a particular scent so different from the smell of it burning. There's no smoke involved, although sometimes there is steam if the wood is wet enough. Mostly it is just a warm, woody, earthy smell that fills the house and makes me think of quiet.