It's winter. Each morning after a time of stillness and coffee, I walk. I realize this is somewhat of a luxury to be able to step away for an hour as the girls are rising and to leave Joel with the details that an awakening house requires, and I am thankful to be able to do this. I dress myself accordingly-no day is too cold (yet)-and I step away from the warm wood heat, the smell of steel cut oats simmering in their own essence, and the extended arms of my one year old, and I begin to walk. Today as I walk, my transition from inside to outside, which usually happens slowly and gradually, is quickened, and I am arrested from my morning stupor by the change I see before me. It must be from the warmer weather. The trees around me, all evergreen, have forsaken their dependable shade and taken on the hoarfrost that fell in the night until they resemble a congregation of bearded men in various states of aging. The air is still, heavy, and white, opening up only to allow myself and the space around me to move forward. I realize this could be experienced as oppressive, but it feels merciful to me. It immediately makes me think of this year, and even further into the future. We have an overwhemling decision looming on the horizon, and I will name it. It is a perceived call to settle in Sandstone and purchase land, build and establish a farm and home, and committ ourselves to this community with all its good and bad. This is big, because we have never owned land, we've never built significant structures, and never lived in one place for more than five years. In the midst of this, we are absorbed with the demands of strengthening a young business. If we think about all of this too much, it's easy to become paralyzed with the immensity of it and the seemingly unanswerable questions of how, and why, and with what, and who. Which is why the cocoon of white mist around me this morning felt so relieving, reminding me that maybe all we need to know and be in right now, is the space that is around us.