Longing to get away

It's winter, and though my world doesn't quite look like this, we nonetheless have been dealing with frost and cold for a while now.  I've not been going on my daily walks for fear of slipping, and even taking the dog to the beach has become problematic: not only is the boardwalk slippery, but a pile of new wood has somehow planted itself where we step off onto the beach, and navigating our way through it has become a bit treacherous.

Even the cats are spending a lot more time indoors these days.  The frozen deck bothers their paws, I think; it looks like Alex spends most of his outside time sitting on the hot tub cover, dreaming of spring.

So how do we spend our days when our horizons become limited?  Do we complain about the cold, or begin planning a trip south?  Are we even aware of what the enforced indoor time does to our psyches?

I'm finding I spend more time just staring at my computer -- which, given that I'm not photographing all that much these days, is not particularly productive.  And this morning, faced with the blank page, I felt a bit frozen.  As time grew short (I have my book group on Tuesday mornings) I gave up and headed to the kitchen to get some toast -- though I suspect that's not what I was really hungry for.

Because I'd spent my meditation time remembering this place -- the retreat center where this photo was taken -- and was longing to be in that sort of space again.  It's funny: this happens every year, like clockwork: Christmas comes, the New Year begins, and suddenly I'm desperate for some time away, off and alone.  You'd think, after all these years, that I'd plan for it.  There's even an Episcopal Women's Getaway weekend, conveniently scheduled every year for Martin Luther King weekend; I should just always book it in advance.

But I didn't this year, in the interests of economy.  And now I'm thinking that may have been a mistake...