a narnian snow day.

Listening to: Rollerblades by Eliza Doolitte. 
Quote love: "Yes, when I get big and have my own home, no plush chairs and lace curtains for me. And no rubber plants. I'll have a desk like this in my parlor and white walls and a clean green blotter every Saturday night and a row of shining yellow pencils always sharpened for writing and a golden-brown bowl with a flower or some leaves or berries always in it and books . . . books . . . books. . . ." 

The wind is blowing little flurries of snow back and forth across the fields and yard. I swear, it's Narnia outside. Any minute now, a faun will come clipping down the road, cross the bridge around the corner, and invite me for tea.

Because I would hate to disappoint a faun, especially a Narnian one, I would gracefully accept. After I wrap a scarf around my neck and stick my beret on my head, we would link arms and trot across the snow-covered fields.

At this point, our noses would be cherry red and our fingers numb. But because it would be Narnia, we wouldn't notice it, and we would proceed with a cozy winter tea.

Because this isn't Narnia, and it's highly unlikely (and terribly sad) that I shall ever find the door to Narnia, I'll just drink a cup of coffee and read the Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, pretending that I'm there. I'll take pictures of snow bokeh and huddle by the fireplace.

When I'm through pretending I've gotten to Narnia, I'll begin to pretend it's spring. I'll listen to Beatles songs and pretend I'm on a yellow submarine in spring. I'll pretend that the trees outside are turning green, and winter is finally over. And then, maybe, I'll go build a snowman.