"When the last time we had a sunny day?" Andy asked this morning. We both looked out over the nearly frozen lake in front of our windows. A small swirl of snowflakes fluttered past the windows.
I can't remember the last time the sunny really shone for a day straight. I can't remember the last time it wasn't snowing.
I know this is the time of year for Christmas carols to be bouncing about in our brains. But whenever, I look out the front windows, I don't hear "Silent Night" or "Jingle Bells." I hear Frank Sinatra: "Come fly with me. Let's fly, let's fly away."
Joni Mitchell wrote about "an urge for going," that deep longing for something different that sets in when:
the frost perched on the town
It hovered in a frozen sky, then it gobbled summer down
When the sun turns traitor cold
and all the trees are shivering in a naked row
In these December days, it's easy to long for some new, exciting sights. Like this:
But flying away doesn't happen on a whim. It takes planning and funds. This coming April is the first April since I graduated when I haven't had definite travel plans. While I'm tempted to go with my parents to Ireland this coming spring, something tells me this isn't exactly what I'm looking for this year. I've lived in both Ireland and England. I'm ready for some place new and exotic: like Australia or Spain, or, or . . . .
So I'll keep peering out the front window, waiting for inspiration to strike and money to appear. You never know when the urge for going will become strong enough to get me out the door.