There's been a lot of white lately; snow, yarn, paper, plates, pages, sky... my skin.  But the light is returning, and the temperatures rising, and I think that does something for creative juices.  Last year I was writing like a mad lady and this year it seems to be an art explosion.  It's lovely.

 I don't know if snow glitters anywhere else like it does here.  Since where I live is technically a desert (!) the snow isn't wet and pack-able, instead it's dry and crystal-ly.  Like glitter or sand.   It blows around on the roads, sparkles when the sun shines through it, and coats the trees.

There's so much chaos inside me with applying for scholarships and trying to not wonder about what I'm doing this summer, all while still wondering and praying and doing a smashing job at acting like a sea-saw.  The peace thing isn't easy to maintain.

But then there's the bits of beauty that God slips in, the little wake-up of my worries aren't that important, I will get through, it will be good.  And the beauty is free and present and ready to be absorbed, ready to heal.  Like this fantastic imprint left in the snow as I was walking into the library last week.  Life is still beautiful.  The future irrelevant.