Shyly, slowly, New York skies have begun to sprinkle the year’s first gentle snow. As we are packing our bags for tomorrow’s long train ride to Montreal, listening to Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1 while the cat follows our every move with suspicious eyes, the light is dimming outside and we can hope to wake up to a white world. Better, still, the countryside might be snowy.

End of a long road. A new one soon to appear behind some hills. Scary freedom. Time to recover. To rest. To plan. And of course, like cats, to land back on our feet.