We’re just in from our third pass at shoveling, after a 20-foot limb came down from the tree outside our building. There’s nothing we can do about the branch without a saw (which we don’t have), but the only collateral damage seems to be to the fence outside our window well. It missed three sets of windows and a car parked outside and has fallen in such a way that it doesn’t block anyone’s walkway or the street and its most navigable spot is directly over the sidewalk.

We and our upstairs neighbor have shaken off the magnolia tree to try to prevent that from breaking, but who knows what the 1-3″/hour storm will do overnight.

Next update in the morning… Now, for me, a mug of hot, strong tea, the end of our Gilmore Girls episode, and a cupcake bought this afternoon.

It’s been snowing for roughly 12 hours now, although it took until nearly 3:30 for it to start sticking. Currently, it’s pouring snow, we’ve got about seven inches on the ground, and Rudi is out doing our second round of shoveling. (Our landlord discounts our rent when we shovel for him, so we’re happy to oblige.)

The mid-Atlantic is usually noted for its ability to over-react to winter storms, many counties in the region cancelling school for days after even the most minor snowfall. We laughed when last week they started predicting a major storm for this weekend. I mean, what were the odds they’d get it right?!

Apparently, I owe local meteorologists an apology. According to every predictive weather map I’ve seen, the District sits firmly in the middle of a band of snow expected to get 20-30 inches of snow before Sunday morning. That’s enough accumulation to make even this New Englander sit up and pay attention.

As I wrote yesterday, Rudi and I are prepared to hunker down, especially since there is a distinct possibility we’ll be home for a few days after this mess lets up as they try to dig out the above-ground portions of the Metro and clear streets enough to let bus service resume.

So, I stopped by the library and came home with an assortment of dvds to help us pass the time:

• The Greatest Game Ever Played, because nothing seems more appropriate during a snow storm than watching people play golf
• Four episodes of first season Buffy the Vampire Slayer (I have a fifth episode that Rudi watched while I was frantically running around trying to bake a couple weeks ago.)
• Some portion (the library doesn’t tell you how many discs were in the box set when they divvy it up) of the first season of The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, which Gramma recommended
• Catch Me if You Can, because a fun caper is always good storm watching
• Happy-Go-Lucky, a French feel-good comedy I’ve wanted to see since it hit the local theaters
• The first three episodes of Mad Men, because Sarah and Susan have good taste and really enjoy it
• Kitty Foyle, starring Ginger Rogers in an Oscar-winning dramatic performance
• The Marx Brothers romp, A Night at the Opera, because, well, it’s the Marx Brothers (Does one need more reason than that?)

We’re also still making our way through the first few episodes of The Gilmore Girls and have The Soloist on loan from Netflix. I don’t think we have to worry about not having an adequate supply of videos.

Chocolate, though, might be another story….

It’s Thursday, also known as Snowmageddon Eve. D.C. is now slated to get 16-26 inches of snow between tomorrow morning and Sunday. Very exciting…

(I can say that because I currently have 10 videos and several books out from the library; a kitchen stocked for baking, preparing meals of grilled cheese and tomato soup, and pouring mugs of steaming hot chocolate; and miles of yarn.)

But before the snow arrives, let’s look backwards at three beautiful things from this past week:

1. On my way home from the metro, I spy a man walking his two Old English Sheepdogs. The older one is well groomed, with hair long enough to keep him warm but not so long as to be mistaken for a duster. The young one’s coat hasn’t reached a full winter weight yet and his black hasn’t faded to grey.

2. I stop in to a dairy near my office to buy some cheese for sandwiches during the upcoming Snowmageddon and leave with a container of strawberry yogurt, too. It’s from a Pennsylvania farm and is made with whole milk and may have been the best strawberry yogurt in the history of humankind.

3. I headed to the DMV to finish registering my car on Saturday morning. Although I set the alarm to go off Very Early, I didn’t drag myself out of the house until after 10:30. I wandered to Georgetown through a snowy Rose Park and arrived at the DMV to (not surprisingly) find a crowd. Yet the line at the triage counter was only two people deep and I had a number and a form to fill out within five minutes of arriving. And I hadn’t really even had time to start filling out the form before my number was called. The woman helping me was pleasant, as we chatted about her eleven years on the job. A mere twelve minutes after getting my number (and certainly less than 20 minutes from walking in the door), I was on my way with a fully registered D.C. car. Thanks for a beautiful experience (and one I certainly didn’t expect to be equally as painfree as last week’s ease at the inspection station), D.C. DMV!

So, what’s been beautiful in your world this week?

Tai Shan, better and more affectionately known to D.C. locals as “Butterstick,” is leaving town tomorrow to head back to China.

We’ll miss you, Butterstick. We enjoyed watching you grow up and know you’ll make the District proud as you make a new life in your parents’ native land.

Good luck!

Today is the 5th annual Bloggers’ (Silent) Poetry Reading in honor of St. Brigid, patron saint of poetry.

This year’s selection so blew me away when it first arrived in my email that I read it twice, meditated on it all day, and then read it aloud to Rudi (who just loves that kind of thing, let me tell you).

A Capital Trip
            by Jean Esteve

We went for salmon,
me and him,
out past the last singing buoy,
on a choppy sea,
his wife aboard, too,
of course; as crew,
helpmeet, her feet
in high sturdy boots,
thick wool over all the rest.
I had on my flowery dress,
and like to froze
till he gave me his coat,
his big cozy jacket
right off his back,
when the wind whipped up
to a real squall
and rain fell hard
on the slippery deck,
rinsing my dainty hands.
We went for salmon,
came home with none,
no fish in the hold,
no wife in woolens,
a successful trip, nevertheless,
all told.

Oh my god. It’s just absolutely perfect in what it sets out to do and is such an amazing example of how poetry is capable of condensing a long story into 25 short, but powerful lines.

Feel free to participate on your own blog or Facebook page (or, if you like really short poems, Twitter) or to add a poem of your own choosing in my comments if you don’t have an online space you call your own. (And a hat-tip to Deb, without whose early post nudging my winter-weary brain I might have forgotten today’s significance.)

My previous years of participation in this event have brought us poems by John Frederick Nims, Mary Oliver, Grace Paley, Heather McHugh, and Barbara Hamby, all of which are worth a re-read should you be so inclined.

Seven years ago today, Rudi and I loaded three cats, two sleeping bags, and a tv into his car and moved south from Connecticut to Washington, D.C.

It had been a harrowing weekend. I hadn’t wanted to move. I’d been happy living in Middletown, and my displeasure and stress had perhaps made me an even slower packer than my procrastination would normally have led me to be. Despite efforts the previous week from friends, we were not packed up and were not ready to go.

My parents, heaven bless them, stopped at the apartment after their own full Friday of work and seven hours of traffic-laden commuting north to kick us into gear again. They went home for a few hours’ sleep, but returned early the next morning. We worked well into the wee hours of Sunday morning and were back up before the sun. All four of us were exhausted and sore and grumpy, but thanks to my parents’ tremendous aid, we were able to hand the keys to the landlady at noon on February 1 with an empty apartment. (Thanks, Mum and Dad. I don’t think Rudi or I can say that enough, even seven years later.)

Driving the final load of stuff up to my parents’ house, we heard on the car radio of the Columbia’s explosion upon attempted re-entry into the earth’s atmosphere. I’m not saying I took it as a sign of a doomed move, but it certainly didn’t improve my outlook at moving far from my family and friends into an apartment a third the size of our previous one.

I have no recollection of that afternoon. I was so grief-stricken at all I was giving up that it has been lost in a whirlwind of pain.

The drive down took all night, as we got a late start and had to stop for several naps. When we finally arrived and unloaded the car, our stuff fit into a small corner of the apartment. We didn’t have jobs. Our prospects looked dim. In fact, I got on a plane that afternoon and returned to Connecticut to work for another two weeks while we looked for means to support ourselves. Life in D.C. stretched before us like an empty wall awaiting its mural.

Seven Februarys have come and gone since then. The Burrow is not remotely empty, as we have shoved way more into it than truly fits comfortably. We’re both still at the jobs we found later that year, each of which is only a few miles from our apartment. The friends we made during the Howard Dean bid for the presidency have lasted far longer than the campaign. They are an intelligent, liberal, quirky bunch, and without them I don’t think I would have made it through to this point.

I want more than anything to say at this point that the move to D.C. was a good one, that I’m glad we came, that I wouldn’t trade it for all the world. I know a lot of people would breathe a sigh of relief to see those words.

But I can’t type them. I just don’t know if they’re true.

I know on sunny summer days after biking with Julia that they’re true. And at Friday night jazz picnics in the sculpture garden. When talking with the farmers on Sunday mornings … Over Inaugural Weekend … There are lots of moments when I’m happy we are where we are.

But on days when I’m home by myself and no one answers their phones or nights like tonight when Rudi’s gone to bed and I’m up too late without a cat on my lap or when people who are dear to me just seem so far away, I’m not so sure still that this wasn’t a terrible mistake.

When I switched my car registration from Connecticut to D.C. this weekend, it was not without tears. My car was the last thing that truly said Connecticut was still mine, that we could just pack up and move back. It’s still possible, but changing the car’s registration just seemed to cement that it wouldn’t be as simple as I’d like to believe the option remained.

They say you can’t step into the same river twice, and it’s true. If I went home, it wouldn’t be home any more. Seven years have changed the lives of my friends and family, too. My grandmother moved in with my parents and sold her house. Karen moved to another state, got married, and had a baby. Shelley quit her job and started med school. John got married. BW became even more involved in her school and was recognized at the state level for her dedication and über-teacher creds. Life goes on for us all.

It used to be a regular occurrence that I’d get depressed and ask Rudi when we could move home. Understandably, he found this a bit discouraging, because he had adjusted well to the move. Last year, I decided I had to make a conscious decision not to ask that question any more. In fact, I was to avoid considering the question whenever possible. I feared that if I didn’t stop thinking of this as a temporary relocation I was never going to be able to move forward. I’d be stuck treading water forever.

I’ve made progress. The moments of resembling Lot’s wife come far less frequently and generally I’m able to laugh off the occasional question from friends from the Northeast inquiring about when we’ll be moving back. But that doesn’t mean the question has resolved itself.

Seven years is a long time. It’s longer than I lived in Middletown after college. It’s longer than I was in New London for college. It was longer than I spent at any school growing up. I don’t know where I’ll be in seven years’ time. Maybe we’ll still be here. Maybe we’ll be back up in New England. Who knows, exactly.

But I do hope that seven years from now I’ll at least have figured out how to be content and at home wherever it is that I am. It seems tonight like that goal is still a ways off from here.