Hoar Frost

The shades of gray and white outside the window this morning are in direct juxtaposition with the gold light and brown shadows inside. It’s a beautiful world of opposites, of yin and yang, of light and dark.

“Hoar Frost,” they call it. Freezing fog. The tundra behind the trees across the river has disappeared into a wall of white, the treeline forming a dark, contrasting end to what the eye can see. The mountains beyond have been replaced by nothingness, emptiness. Everything is perfectly still, not a breath of wind. There is no sparkle to the frost covered limbs because there is no sun, only light. The white behind the trees fades gently upward to the light gray of the sky, no break, no seam, no opening, like a blanket thrown over the world, blocking out all sun, but somehow, the day continues to get more light, brighter white, lacking any shine or warmth from a sun that’s only a memory. Was it ever really there? The brilliant sunrise of pinks and oranges yesterday seems like a dream. Today, all is white and gray. Even the evergreens take on a dark gray color. There is no green, only black and white and every shade in between. The black and white chickadees jockey for spots at the birdfeeder for the last of the Black Oil Sunflower Seeds, their brilliant, definitive shading of black and white lost in the flat light, showing them as simply another shade of gray.

Inside, the golden, warm light from the kerosene lamp mirrors itself in the window, looking like a soft flame in the middle of the frozen river. The clear crystal base of the lantern reveals the gentle stir of the flammable liquid it contains with every press of a key on the keyboard underneath my dancing fingertips. The brass fitting from which the flame grows is pocked and weathered, but still holds strongly to the thin glass, hurricane globe with four upward-reaching brass prongs like fingers holding on to a stemless wine glass. The flame, no bigger than a silver dollar, gives off a warmth with it’s light that is comforting on a cold morning, as I sit close to it, the top of my book almost touching the clear base, and read about Claire and Jaimie’s adventures during the Revolutionary War, a fleece blanket wrapped around me waist-down, while the newly-turned-up heating stove works to warm the one-room cabin up a few degrees out of the overnight chill, and the freshly brewed coffee cools quickly in my mug. The wooden walls, cabinets, and only door of the cabin fade into the soft brown background. There is a gentle snoring coming from our Chocolate Lab, as she sleeps soundly just a few inches from the roaring oil stove.

The day begins.