I live in a tiny little cabin at the edge of a frozen river. Sure, it's on a street with other houses, in a little town. But with the snow coming down in a foggy blanket, it feels like I just happen to be a million miles away from anyone, anywhere. With the music playing quietly in the background, fiddles going round and round, I am content with the feeling that there is nothing out there but snow. That my husband will come home to us, and a hot meal will make it to the table. That my children will sit at the table with shining faces, and the warmth of the pine logs will feels comfy.
Sometimes I wish for that cabin so far away. I wish for no communication for months on end. I miss the feeling of letters. I want the feeling that while winter has a trapped for a while, it keeps us quiet and contemplative. It makes me want to make hearty food and sing songs from my heart and feed large hairy animals. It makes me want to struggle against the elements enough to be so grateful to be alive when I fall asleep every night.
I know that I may seem a bit hermit like here, but it simply comes from a want for the simpler things. Simplicity and quiet are things that I hold very dear. The sound of drums around a fire, soft and thrumming.