For those who don't follow me on Twitter or Facebook, we've had a touch of snow this past week. 3-4 feet of it, in fact.







This has meant that the past two days have been spent shoveling. (Shawn and I also shoveled Tuesday before he went down the hill, but we got another couple of feet dumped on us Wednesday.) Fortunately, I've got pretty decent abs and know how to move, so I haven't thrown out my back (although the muscles definitely know they've been working, and my right wrist is a bit tender.)

Tonight, I was tired, but Shawn was coming home, and I wanted to at least get the berm broken down enough so he could get into the driveway.

Almost five o'clock. Jam the shovel into the berm, feeling my wrist twinge as I hoist the shovel and its load, tilt and swivel it so I can use my elbow as a fulcrum, bicep flexing explosively to toss the snow high enough to clear the drift at the side of the driveway.

I pause, planting the shovel in a patch of snow, and look around. Tall Douglas pines are silhouetted against a salmon-edged, twilit sky, the faintest pink and peach reflecting off the darkening snow surrounding me. A breeze chills the sweat on the back of my neck, and I shiver, but not much. Almost done for the day. 10, maybe 15 more shovels-full, and I'd call it quits.

But first, breathe in this moment: the fading, yet glowing light... the tingle of my nose and upper lip.... Even the monotonous, metallic crunching of snow chains passing on the nearby road provides another texture for this beauty.

Deep breath, bracing myself. I can do 15 more loads. I hoist the shovel, and go back to work.