Last night, after Jeff came home from work, we ate a quick dinner, then drove the two and a half hours through the cold winter evening. The gray and purple clouds trailed our car through the snowy fields as we quietly listened to music – country, folk, bossa nova.
For the last hour, while the clouds melted into the thickening darkness, we listened to nothing but Bruce Springsteen.
Our neighbor Jason had turned on the heat and left the light on in the kitchen, and the cottage embraced us as though it had missed us, too. I unpacked the groceries while Jeff started making popcorn.
We watched two episodes of Downton Abbey.
I slept through the night, a quiet, deep, dreamless sleep.
How wonderful to sleep! For the past few months I have been suffering from chronic insomnia, and this night of restful sleep felt like the most generous of gifts. Thank you, sweet cottage.
For to enter our cottage is to enter a different reality, or rather a different relationship to time. Everything slows down and I have all the time in the world to do the things I love.
We spent the morning sipping coffee and reading in bed, then made a breakfast of eggs with toast and jam. And then, most luxurious of all, I took a bath in my huge, ancient claw foot tub. In the middle of the day.
And now, I am about to curl up on my old sofa with the book that I am reading, The Sisters Brothers by Patrick deWitt. It is a wonderful, comical, violent adventure story about the American West of 1851.
Just the kind of book to spend a winter afternoon with.