I think of the winter woods as a gallery that features the art of its trees. On my desk an index card is inked with words, hand-printed, to remind me what to notice when I visit there: lines form textures colors rhythm patterns motion. They silently sing link a mantra as I wander through the gallery’s arched wooden halls.
Today, a mild and damp mid-February day, shrouded in mist, I felt called to visit. As I walked on the leaf-strewn ground, packed hard now by the winter, my eyes focused on the details: the fallen needles and cones strewn on an oak leaf carpet, the barks of the trees, the depth of color in the misty light, the images that the curves evoked. I was quite intent on these, yet fully aware of the thickness of the air and the way it seemed to wrap everything, including me, in dream-like mystery.
I drifted along in this mesmerized state for some time before I turned toward home. And that’s when I saw the shaggy horned creature emerging from the mist, a giant of a beast. We stared at each other, assessing the situation. Then I bowed in acknowledgment of it and greeting, and the air between us grew clear and we became for each other an old woman, hiking with a camera, and the muddied roots of an old, fallen tree.
Here’s to all the lovers, who count not the flaws, but see to the depths of the heart of the beloved, who treasure a glance, a wink, a smile as the key to life’s meaning, who give to the beloved as easily as they breathe, who feel in each touch of the lover’s hand a new sunrise, who weather the days when love’s light wanes, believing in its inevitable return.
Here’s to those who find love on the street, in the face of a child, in the kindness of a stranger, who see love in the eyes of the aged and dying, who behold its light in neighbors, in pets, in flowers and trees, in roaring oceans and starry skies, who celebrate how it’s love that holds the world together.
Here’s to those wrapped in the illusion of loneliness, who believe they have missed love’s smile, to those whose pain or fear hides love’s presence, whose wounded hearts wait for love’s kiss. It will come, dear ones; it will come. It envelopes and upholds you now.
Here’s to the song of the universe, that rises from Love’s heart, that carries its tender strength to each particle of being, to every star, to every world, endlessly and forever singing Yes. Yes. Yes.
Yesterday I saw geese in the sky, great V’s of them heading north, mighty wings pushing their thick bodies through the air, their boisterous honking calling me to note their flight. Today I found them skating on skim ice at the pond, silent, but playful, still moving as if they were cells of a single body, turning together, heading in a common direction, connected by some innate sense of relatedness, understanding harmony down to their bones.
As much as I admire the kind of curiosity that wonders why the skin of the pine differs so from that of the birch, and what it can tell us about its history and evolution, and those minds, too, that want to know what names have been given to each species and to the kingdoms to which each belongs, it is my lot, it seems, simply to see the way, say, tiny seeds nestle here, just so, amidst these wondrous slabs of clay-red bark.
Such a ripping of the air! Such a cacophony of sound! All at once, from nowhere, a flock of geese splashes down. The waters leap up to meet webbed feet. Wings flap and fold. And before you can even catch your startled breath, they’re settled, and silent, floating as if they’d been floating for hours, as if their grand entrance hadn’t awakened the entire woods.
In their corner, under the cool glow of their lights, my little houseplants keep sprouting their leaves and making seeds, as if they didn’t know that the light was artificial. But I suspect they do.
They seem quieter somehow in their winter home than when they’re basking on the summer sills, their joy turned inward now, their songs reduced to murmurs as they share their dreams.
“Soon,” I whisper to them as I water their soil, “soon. The breezes will come, the birds return to sing their morning songs, and the rain will perfume the air. Until then, my dears, we wait.“
Whenever I’m lucky enough to find myself walking behind an old couple holding hands, I feel my heart warm and my face smile. This is how I wish every Valentine’s story could end—fifty years down the road, having weathered it all, with a richer love than ever before.
It takes real commitment to make it happen. And it’s nice to see that some of us actually manage to do it.
If you’re in a love relationship, or hope to be, the key to making it last is appreciation. Did you know that?
Couples who stay together say five times as many positive statements to each other as negative ones. They find more reasons to praise and fewer to fault-find. They tell each other what they enjoy and respect and admire about each other. They thank each other for everyday acts of consideration.
If you’re not in a love relationship with someone, you can still benefit from putting the 5:1 rule into practice. It works in all kinds of relationships, and it even works for your relationship with yourself.
In fact, learning to appreciate yourself is one of the big keys to emotional and spiritual growth. A lot of us spend a lot of time beating ourselves up, pointing out to ourselves how we don’t measure up. My advice? Cut that out!
Kindness starts at home, and that means it starts with you being kind to you. Even to the parts of yourself that you don’t especially like. In fact, especially to those parts. They’re the parts that most need love if they’re ever going to heal. So you say to them, “Crabby part? I love you because you hold such high standards about the way things should be.” “Painful part? I love you because you’re crying so hard for my attention.” “Ugly part? I love your uniqueness, and the beauty of you that you don’t see, and the parts that you wish were different.”
Say “Hi, Sweetheart!’” to yourself in the mirror and mean it—because you are one, you know. Thank your fingers and toes and nose and knees for all they do for you. Take time as you tuck yourself in at night to appreciate all that you accomplished. Acknowledge the work you did, the things you enjoyed, the services you performed, and the kindnesses you bestowed. Thank yourself for your endurance and persistence. Thank yourself for your good intentions. Love the parts of you that were hurt or offended and comfort them; give them the understanding that they didn’t get anywhere else.
Commit to being your own best Valentine. And then pass the love along. I bet you five to one it will make your life sweeter and open the way to living happily ever after.
If you aren’t paying attention to such things you may not have noticed the mist of faint pink at the tips of the maples’ twigs. It’s subtle, this waking. Maples, after all, have deep dreams. They don’t burst from their sleep all at once. They simply stretch a bit as the first sap rises and take on a rosy glow at the taste of it. (May the glow summon robins!) This is the start of it, you know – spring, this time of the waking of the maples.
I saw it all at once, looking down from the little walking bridge, the whole progression: Boulder, rock, stone, sand. The whole story told in this one, small space. It takes eons. The grinding with nothing more than friction, much like the bow on the strings of a cello, but made of water and wind. Why not? If you have endless time, why not?
I had no plan to climb this ridge. I was following a winding brook, pale gold in the light of winter’s afternoon sun, when the pines caught my eye, their soft boughs green against the faded russet of their fellow oaks’ fallen leaves. It’s like that sometimes. A part of me I cannot name rises from my center to wordlessly point the way. I have learned to heed it. And standing here, on a February day in the midst of these pines, I know why.
