This Is Where You Belong

The chores get done in reverse in the evening, usually after supper and after the evening news so it's dark when I bring in the bird feeders and empty the water from the dish in the chicken coop (rather than have to smash out a frozen block of water in the morning).

Last night, in the freezing cold temperatures, as I turned away from the coop after locking the door (and hearing my little mouse friend skittering around inside very close by), I paused to look at my house.
My house. Our house.
Around it, silence. Cold, cracking silence.
Above it, a black sky sprinkled with stars.
And I took a deep breath in and listened to this universe remind me, "This is where you belong."

For all the uncertainty I feel about the future of my writing career, whether that's magazine work or church work or book work, for all that I have no idea what I'll be doing this time next year, I know -- for certain -- that I love where I live. That in this space, on this property, under that vast sky is where I am meant to be.

Perhaps I'm not selling another book because I don't live in Toronto; no one wants an obscure writer from a small market like Nova Scotia. But this is where I live, love and write best, and I don't want to move back to Toronto, I don't want to live in the city. I want the sky -- in the morning and at night -- because it makes me believe in 'infinite possibilities'. As long as I can see the sky, I will believe.

People are complaining about the cold -- it's minus 24 when I get out of bed at six o'clock in the morning -- but these frigid nights are a result of the clear skies. Forget about staying inside under warm covers watching TV. Get outside and LOOK UP! The cold makes the stars glitter. The cold reminds us we are alive, lucky to be alive, "on the right side of the sod" as my husband says. Breathing in that cold air, filling my eyes with that sparkling black sky. Nothing is more life-affirming and more hopeful, nothing makes me more curious about the future. When I look at the cloudless night sky next February, who will I be? I would like to be even more grateful than I am right now.

I can't take the kind of night photos that would adequately illustrate what I experienced last night so I took a photo of the same view early this morning. Really not was awe-inspiring, and reassuring, and breathtaking, but still, my home.