January 1 – “Mindfulness”. Many thanks to Emily for today’s prompt, as we take a moment or two each day this month to reflect on words that come from the community. And thanks to Linda G Hill for getting us organized!

It snowed this morning. Again. I know it was this morning, probably after 7 am, because I didn’t see fresh tracks from the twin does that cross my back yard and jump over the waist-high fence that keeps our human neighborliness neighborly. The deer regularly stroll through before everybody gets up to start the bustle of their day. Cars running, lights snapping on in the winter dark, thump of young children’s feet on the thin wood floors, the jingle and crunch of a dog or cat eating and making music with their bowl of kibble. Meanwhile, I’m mindful in my dreams as I remember how busy life was when the kids were young.

Now they’re grown and I’m a gramma.

Eventually I rise and sip my coffee, check my email once the cat has finished inserting himself between my cup and my mouth, purring gratitude for food and a softwarm lap (thanks Dav Pilkey). It looks to have been a light snow—maybe 2 inches—and it’s cold enough that the flakes will stay fluffy and easy to clear. No snowblower to blast myself out of the peace of a new year.

The continual icy cold is also good from a homeowner’s perspective, because when it’s this cold, the chemicals the crews spread on the main roads to combat it won’t activate. The roads are slick and sneaky, but on days like today, many (not all) folks can stay at home, and those chemicals don’t get spread to the side roads, to collect and harden the effluvia the snowplows leave as they pass by. I am mindful and grateful that digging myself out was a piece of cake today.

With light snow and no snowblower needed, I note that my fingertips are frozen and tender in my gloves and choppers, but remember that they’ll thaw when I get about halfway down the drive. The shovel whispers over the snow, rumbling over the sleet that preceded an earlier snowfall. Just a simple push, no need to dig and grunt; it’s like frosting a cake, and I can almost smell a heady perfume of chocolate that adds itself to a fresh-baked yellow cake.

I’ll content myself with soup and the sourdough rye rolls baked up yesterday, maybe put a fire in the jotul. There are chores on my calendar for tomorrow, but today is a present to myself.

© Liz Husebye Hartmann (2026)

To read others’ responses or join in yourself, please visit: https://lindaghill.com/2026/01/01/daily-prompt-jusjojan-the-1st-2026/