Here I am at nearly 8am with no plans to go anywhere today. It’s glorious. I’ll get outside for a bit to shovel the walk once the snow stops – we’re up to about five inches now – but otherwise, I’m going to stay in, post some of my dad’s gorgeous woodwork on Etsy, read more of Garth Nix’s Sabriel, and clean up . . . I love days like this . . . now if only I had a fireplace.

When I look out my window, I’m reminded of James Joyce’s story “The Dead.” Read it and see if you agree.

A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.

– from Online Literature

Have a wonderful day, all.