Waiting for the Snow

There's a pot of rice cooking on the stove, and I'm waiting for the snow. They said it would come, and I believe them - not because they said it would, but because of that bitter chill that bites you in the nose on your way home from work. The official herald of snow.

There's a ponderous sense of peace that settles in like a fog when I'm waiting for the snow. The headlights coming over the hill dwindle in number, seem to come more slowly. The house is warm and quiet, except for the rice bubbling away. It makes me think, for some reason, of frontierswomen sitting together in familiar silence, patching quilts. They had their music and their songs, but many nights were probably spent quietly, like this. (No TV.)

The quilts they might have patched... not the decorative type that adorn modern houses, but the crazy-quilt kind. Nonsensical. Colors and shapes of whatever scraps are lying around, fabric bandages that hold it together through another year or two since new cloth is too expensive for an old quilt to merit.

Truthfully, I haven't found my identity as a musician/performer yet. I know it. I feel all jumbled up like a crazy-quilt, made up with bits and pieces of other stuff. Classical training, but loves the simple joy of traditional jigs and reels. Guitar, but also trying banjo dulcimer recorder bass piano who knows what else. Joining a choir. Running a choir. Giving lessons. Amateur storyteller. Summer camp songs extraordinaire. Composer. Songwriter. Loves a good ska show. Feels a little like multiple personalities, sometimes.

It's not like I'm looking to be restricted to just one thing... I love that God's putting me in so many places where I can use the gifts I've been given. But man, sometimes I get to feeling adrift. It's all I can do just to keep moving forward in faith... knowing that I started musicking because of God's encouragement to be who He made me to be, and He finishes what He starts.