This must be the place

Grey. Nothing but grey surrounds me. It's that time in Vermont when everything is ugly. The leaves are down, there is no snow. The wind blows straight through your heavy jackets, and going outside is a special event. It seems like there should be nothing appealing about wanting to be here. No warmth, no beauty, not even a single cow stinking up any pasture.

So I ask myself, why does the thought of leaving next week have me feeling more grey than the sky? Because, just like an ugly grey rock that cracks open into a magnificent geode, seemingly terse and uncomfortable, Vermont sparkles when you really get to the heart of it. At least, the Vermont that I know. The last time I was here, I left terribly disappointed because I felt at arms distance from the inner beauty of Vermont. I was apart from it; I was not enveloped in the community of sparkle. I could see it, but I couldn't reach it.

This time, I'm on the inside. I feel the greens of the potlucks; the reds of wool sweaters; the blues of laughing eyes. We know the grey is around us, but it's irrelevant as we sit up late a night picking at roasted chicken and sipping home brewed beers. We make plans to help our neighbors stack wood. We have our girls day at the maternity clothing thrift store. We work on our computers during the day, as the wood stove crackles.

I paused to wonder if it's just that I'm apart from the routine that makes me romanticize it here. And yes, that may be some of it. But as I consider further, I see that we're not really doing anything...other than being a family. A family at home.