This snowy lull

In snowboarding, I believe they call this patch the glide. Not much is going on. The track looks smooth and gentle, rolling along the hillside. But this apparently easy leveling-off is actually when it's hardest to stay on your feet.

This is where I live now, and, my lawyer tells me, where I'll likely stay for many months yet. The glide. 

Life is so much easier to handle when you're carrying momentum. Screaming down a mountain, trees and bumps coming at you faster than you can handle, everything flows on instinct. Fear forces you to take risks that either leave you whooping in exaltation or dumped on your arse trying to work out what not to do next time. Either way, one thing is for sure: you're alive.

This glide, though, steals that momentum. It robs you of balance and renders even the smallest of inclines a mighty challenge. You start to lose faith in your instincts, begin overcompensating with thought, and more often than not come grinding to a halt in the middle of nowhere, staring at the scenery and wondering where the heck to go.

My lawyer informed me yesterday that my residency likely won't come until July/August, one year after this debacle began. I had been hoping for a miraculous early arrival, even carrying my phone with me around the house in case the call came.

The phone's not on me any more. I'm not working on my novel, not making crafty bows, not running errands or going for jogs in the snow. I am simply drinking tea. 

The glide is where I'm at. And the scariest thing is, I don't know if I'll ever get that momentum back.