Quiet Pleasures

December 5, 2012. It was still dark when I woke this morning—what one expects in December. But a window sill in the bedroom seemed to be illuminated. I peered out and saw the moon high overhead, half-full, framed by the conifers that grow alongside the house. It had a faded rainbow ring around it, so I went outside to try and photograph it. I didn’t capture the ring, but did get a trace of the framing branches. Look closely and you'll see them.

Now (9:30 a.m.) snow is falling softly though the temperature is still above freezing. It began to fall, just an occasional flake, a few minutes ago while I was outside, photographing the old trees in back of this house, the ones that keep me company. Even as I’m typing it’s falling more thickly, lingering on the car but melting as it hits the ground. One of the pleasures of falling snow, more noticeable perhaps in the city, is the silence it creates.

Remembering that silence leads me to the quiet pleasures I’m finding in this house, domestic pleasures for the most part. Learning its sounds—I wondered before coming here what the house would sound like. Would its noises make me feel comfortable or nervous? It’s quiet, with few creaks and groans except the usual clicks as heat comes and goes. The furnace, when it comes on, makes a sturdy pair of hums, sounds that are warming in themselves. My city fridge is noisy, uttering a variety of whirrs and mutters and sometimes clunks. The fridge here whispers to itself.

The satisfactions of sweeping floors and putting things away so the kitchen counter is spacious when I come down in the morning is a pleasure. The dining room with its pine table and unrugged hardwood floor is another. I like to sit at that table facing the woods to write, as well as to eat. It’s solid and smooth.

My gleaming red kettle is, if not exactly quiet itself, a source of quiet pleasure—the ritual of making tea or coffee, hot cup then warming my hands as I savour the taste and the pause. I sometimes take my first cup of the day out onto the back porch so I can look at those old trees for awhile—another pleasure—without the window glass between us.

I’m not very knowledgeable about trees—a mix of pines and spruce, perhaps, is what gathers around the house, with three cedars across the front. I’ll have to get a tree book—or better yet find someone here who can tell me what I’m looking at. The trees immediately in back are old and not clumped close together; the space between them has allowed their boughs to stretch to amazing lengths. Most of their lower branches are bare and their tops are thin.

But one long pine bough I can see is covered with green and I like to watch it move and shift with the wind. The way conifers move makes me think of ruffled skirts shifting and twirling in a dance. A square dance perhaps, each waiting its turn.

The quiet pleasure of reading … the somewhat less quiet pleasure of writing … and best of all: staring out one window or another at the trees and weather, thinking vague thoughts from time to time—I spend hours doing that.