Seeing the holidays in the rear-view mirror is not unlike getting over a virulent stomach bug. The relief of simply getting back to normal is so satisfying as to be positively transformative in nature. The gratitude, the deep contentment, the blissful solitude – it’s possible that I have just gained a whole new lease on life.

Our dogs have come out of hiding and are sound asleep - sprawled across the living room floor. Happiness for them is found in the simple things as well. Like being able to nap wherever they want, knowing their humans will step over them and not on them - like well-intended, but accident-prone children and house guests sometimes do.

Our chickens who, as a matter of course, consider any sudden movement or unexplained noise an existential threat – did not, in fact, weep to see our beloved grandchildren leave. Perhaps as life returns to normal and the hens realize it was just the end of the year and not the end of the world, they’ll start laying again. Perhaps…

Our sheep, who are not unlike the chickens - or me, find comfort and contentment in the quietly mundane. Life for them is good once again – simply because everything is as it should be. Everything is back to normal.

Our pigs, who are accustomed to a daily cornucopia of hay, day old bagels, acorns, and a variety of fruits and vegetables - were fed nothing but dry pig food for the entire holiday week. They have been boisterously unhappy with the menu, and there is nothing quite as unfestive, or as threatening, as an unhappy pig. I brought them acorns and apples today, they’ll have squash and pears once again tomorrow and depending on what next week brings - I just might be forgiven by spring.

For Anne and me, the departure of our house guests has been like opening presents all over again as we rediscover all the misplaced objects and the things we put away “somewhere” for safe keeping. Look! I found the bread knife and oh! There’s my favorite coffee mug!!

Tranquility washes back over me today, as I bask in the silence and can write quietly, once again, in my favorite chair - my reading glasses, and cup of coffee right beside me-exactly where I left them…

Heading out the door to do chores this morning though, my heart felt an awful tug. I sorely miss that little hand reaching up for mine. I miss his happy chatter and gentle laughter. I miss the chance to see the world again, vicariously through his eyes. To explore and discover all the wonder that there is to be found in all the things I now just take for granted. I miss him mightily - but for a few more days at least, I’ll still have the cold he gave me, and for now that’ll do.

There are few things on this planet as peaceful as walking in a New England forest after a snowstorm. The sound deadening blanket covering the earth creates a blissful silence and is the perfect tonic for an overly noisy world. The welcomed hush is broken only by the gentle rustle of leaves stubbornly clinging to a few outlying trees.

Most deciduous trees drop their leaves as soon as the color fades in Autumn. But a few, like white oak and beech trees, are “marcescent” and hold on to their dead leaves through the winter. Researchers have yet to agree on why these trees do this. Some theorize that marcescent leaves provide a fresh layer of mulch in the spring when the trees need it most. Some think the retained leaves offer shelter for birds, which in turn fertilize the ground below them. Some think the unappetizingly dead leaves help protect the tasty new buds from being eaten by browsing herbivores. I’ve often thought that the leaves were just left there for me to enjoy, like muted wind chimes on a wintry day.

Curiously though, and perhaps revealingly so, is that the majority of marcescent leaves are within twenty feet of the ground. A white oak tree which might be eighty feet tall, will only retain the leaves on its lower branches. If the purpose of marcescence is to provide a layer of mulch, or shelter for the birds, surely retaining the upper leaves would be useful as well.

The fact that the only leaves retained are ones within reach of passing herbivores lends credence to the theory that it’s a form of protection from grazing. To discourage our contemporary white-tailed deer, the twenty-foot cut off point is definitely overkill, but oak and beech trees evolved for millions of years in the company of giant sloths and mastodons. In fact, back when beavers were the size of bears (about 10,000 years ago), your average run of the mill herbivore could easily have grazed from the gutters of a two-story home.

The only things that kept those super-sized grazers from consuming the entire planet were the equally impressive hypercarnivores that hunted them. Despite today’s allure, I seriously doubt I’d find my meandering wintertime stroll so relaxing if I had to share the forest with saber tooth tigers, American cheetahs, and dire wolves. Perhaps the true purpose of the marcescent leaves is to serve as a reminder that though the modern world might seem loud and at times stressful, at least I can aspire to be something more than just an appetizer in the food chain of life.