Snowy Monday With Niko

     We have not been together for a while for writing--and now don't often go to yoga. Niko's head injury (Dec 4) continues to show itself in ways that keep her from the so-called normal activity, like yoga, that she's so used to doing. Rest, careful rest. This has been such a year for falls--that I begin to think something, other than the ice and snow, is happening--a change in the gravitational field?   
      But today, we're in the usual cafe, looking out on bare trees, large rocks, a downtown mall, and snow gently falling. Return from the airport last night was a bit nightmare-ish, especially when the fluid for our wipers went out, and we were left having to peer under great swaths of ice and goop to see the road-or more helpfully, the tail lights of the car directly in front of us. It was one of those snows that was slushy and wet, the kind where, when you turn on the bright lights, you're blinded by the flakes coming out you like some shower of fireworks on the 4th of July.
    Lovely--a message from granddaughter Brett just popped up--so many people complain about all these modern ways of messaging and what it's doing to the language, blah, blah, blah--but when your granddaughter IM's you, saying that she has been tovisit her cousin Eric in Chicago, and if we still had only telephones, really only land lines, we wouldn't be talking --the expense, the difficulty with long distance. Measure that against the uplifted heart when I get a quick message from the granddaughter.
     I told her that I'm still dancing, which I am--and should be back in jazz classes either this week or the next--adding that to NIA and Latin. The body moves, continues to move, and even gets looser. Love it. Love to dance.
    I've just finished a book, "The Anatomy of Hope," and will write about it here. I'm also reading Marylynn Robinson's Home, started only last night, but already drawn into the narrative that provides another pov from the novel Gilead. How is it that so many years passed between Housekeeping and these later novels? I want to know what that's about. Home is a retelling of the Prodigal Son parable--couldn't be more timely.
   And now mt friend Julie has sent me a message about harps and healing, with a link to them. Something she heard about on NPR--