She is a little weary of deep snow and icy cold, and at times, she is even a little tired of the color blue, no matter how intensely blue the blue happens to be.
It is at such times that something curved or fragile or delicately robed in snow shows up and begs rapt and focused attention, glossy bubbles suspended in the ice of the frozen creek, snow crystals frosting the evergreens over her head, an oak leaf in the trail at her feet, pine cones casting vivid shadows in pools of early morning sunlight.
Just when she decides that she will not sketch another icicle or take another photo of such things, another eloquent winter tableau presents itself to the eye. Small and perfect, complete within itself, it conveys an elemental peace and balance, lowers the blood pressure and stills the breathing, returns her eyes and focus to simplicity and grace and assent.
For a minute or two, her pain subsides into the background, and balance returns. It is a miracle that she is standing here at all, and her fleeting interval on the edge of the woods has to be enough. It is enough and more.
There are worlds great and small everywhere, worlds within and worlds without, and every one is a wonder to behold and remember and love with her eyes. Surely, she can do this for a little while longer.