December skies are heavy with the burden of unshed snow. There’s a feeling of deep sadness about these grey December days. It is a time that is closely akin to the dying time, the grey mist of December saps the life out of whatever greenery may remain in the garden and the sparrows huddle together in the eves of this old house struggling to stay warm.

It is a time of drawing within and stoking the life flame within us with small comforts like cups of hot, fragrant tea and music and good books.

And yet by necessity one must still venture out and about. Still one walks more quickly then in the time of sun bright skies; the destination now seems far more important than the journey.

There is a kind of leisure about these December days. There is time now to sit and meditate by candle light; time to ruminate and to recall old memories to mind and savor them once more, as one does when one finds forgotten treasures in the dusty corners of an attic. Any desire to go off rambling across the rolling hills is a thing of the past.

Now it is a cozy nook and a warm fire that calls the wanderer home until the south wind blows spring back to this river valley town.