Twelve inches of snow. We wake at dawn and pull the curtains open—clap hands, coo, shriek, jump on bed. Mugs of hot tea and hot milk arrive (thank you, man of ours, the one who stokes the fires, the one who keeps the dishes clean, the one who makes us laugh the hardest). We’re driving nowhere today. Sleds, feet, skis only. Wood stove, soup, skeins, paper, scissors, board games, popcorn, you-name-it and what-have-you. Later: stew, woodstove, friends, Mary Poppins, scotch and a deck of cards. So we can all get lost in one way or another. This is The Way to Love the Winter. This is The Way to Be Here, Now. And this quiet, right this minute, (while one child rides in the plow truck and the other sleeps upstairs), this cup of strong black tea and these warm legs (while outside the windows the wind blows white), this is The Way to Bring Peace to the Mother Whose Peace Brings Peace to the Day.