It is cold. Colder than it has been in years, and I find myself introspective as the frost makes its patterns upon my window and the cold air is a knife within my lungs.There isn't much snow, the streets are covered, and slick with frozen tire tracks, but the ravine is spotted with snow, the tan corpses of grasses scattered about. There is a stillness in such cold even the little birds that normally lend their happy songs to the winter morning are gone. It is as if the world is sleeping, and I wonder what is sleeping within me.

There are days when I am worn down with giving. I care. Yes I do. I care a lot. I once figured I would end up in clinical psychology or even perhaps social work because I want to help people. Caring can be hard in the coldness of winter, when all the tracks you lay are obliterated once again by the drifting snow, and your song seems to fall on deaf ears. Still, even when the heart says "enough! I am bled dry", something will catch my attention. The paleness of the mountains against an azure sky. A impossibly purple cloud drifting so carefree even amidst the bitter cold, and every molecule within my body opens and says "awe". The cycle is complete.

The living room concert is on my mind these days. I am excited for I am playing with a lovely harpist who is not only talented, but also a beautiful spirit. And then it is pure joy to sing, to taste the silken words and feel the notes swell within my breast. It is the joy of connection.



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