She dreams, on a frosty morning, that she is migrating with the wild geese. The wake of air that trails from their wings makes tunnels of spinning light as they stroke into the frozen dawn, their calls echoing against the cold.
Ahead, she sees the bay of a great lake, solid now, a flat steel gray, and she falls with a flurry of downy white flakes to its ice-heaped edges. Near the shore, winter reeds pen haiku with invisible ink on fresh snow.
An Irish setter walks past, stopping to read the lines, burying his nose in them. “Bailey!” a woman calls from a house that sits on a rise above the shore. “Bailey! Come!” And the dog trots off.
As a pale pink sun pushes above the horizon, its light spiraling in tunnels through the falling snow, the calls of geese echo from across the bay. She wakes, and finds a gray feather resting on her pillow, glistening with snow.
What if today, I wondered, were the last day? What if the great Here of the planet itself ceased to be, and all that remained of it was what remained in the memories of those who had dwelt in its embrace?
Would I take with me fields of goldenrod and daisies? A child’s face? Spruce boughs seen through a window etched with winter frost? Would I take the a loved one’s touch? The wind? The stars? The sound of a choir? Or of laughter? Or a guitar?
What would be etched in the book of my mind—what beauty, what love, what truth—if today were the very last day?
It’s one of those things you take for granted, fail to see, having shared space with it so long that you think of it no more often than you think, say, of the nail on the little toe on your left foot. It’s like the geranium I mentioned earlier, blooming its heart out over there on the hearth. Yet here it is, a mind-boggling absolute miracle, this green grace of branches that dances outside the north windows day after day. How we flatter ourselves to think we are aware, hey?
After endless days of low gray clouds, the sun emerged, and the world’s colors sang like the flute of some Piped Piper. I could do nothing but follow its song as it led me down winding country roads lined with bright snow, brought by the clouds I had endured, and now thanked. It’s a mistake to take weather personally, you know. But if you must, see it as a teacher, a mirror, an invitation, a gift. The Piper’s song, for instance, carried me to this creek, so still, so silent between its snow-dusted banks, so clearly reflecting the trees that leaned as if to see what was coming from upstream. I watched blue shadows roll down the hill, their color turning to sky as they slid across the waters and saw how the brush and grasses were gold in the afternoon’s low sun and how the snow shimmered in its light. I left the Piper there to sing its way down the creek. I got what I came for. I understood.
What to take with you: All the good things, all the things that coaxed you to open to love. Even the ones that hurt; maybe especially those. But pain is everywhere; what you’re looking for now are the gems. The times, for instance, colored by laughter, contentment, satisfaction, gratitude, joy. The moments when you felt open and joyous and free. The times you were engulfed in an ocean of compassion, for everyone, everywhere, because life is hard. The times you were at peace and in love with it all. That’s what you want to keep. And what to hope for? More of the same, please. More of the same.
You would think that in this biting cold, with its stark spaces and sharp air, the world would be a hostile place. Yet look how the azalea holds open its leaves. Look how gently the snow lays itself down.
The sound of the creek, filled by the midwinter thaw, enters the fisherman’s dreams. He feels himself planted firmly in its waters, leaning into them as they rush past his hip-high boots. He can smell the boots. His muscles move in his sleep as he imagines casting his line into the wind, watching it fly through the wet air that tastes of spring and drop into the waters, upstream. And in his dream he calls to the trout and feels the tug on his line as one bites, and he reels it in, oblivious now to the cold waters, to their push against his legs. It is only him and the fish now and this singular joy. And the joy feeds him, and he wakes filled with it, even though spring is still weeks away.
Last week, for the first time this winter, we got a couple of inches of snow. Enthralled by the beauty of it, I grabbed my camera and headed for a nearby nature park, one of my favorite haunts. I was walking through the pine forest at the edge of the lake and had just stopped to take photos of a stand of young pines when, to my surprise, a woman appeared from behind me.
We exchanged a few words, discovered we were of like minds, and traded phone numbers. Each of us left knowing that we had met a new friend. Maybe you have had one of those encounters, where you meet someone and feel at once as if you have known them forever. This was one of those.
I’m delighted to have a new friend. I had an open space in my heart, waiting for one.
I have been thinking about friendship lately and what a gift it is. When I redid my office bulletin boards a couple weeks ago, I posted photos of my closest friends so I could gaze at their faces when I’m thinking of them. And I think of them daily.
Then yesterday, while I was browsing through some old files, I came across a little tribute to friendship that I’d written over a decade ago. I called it “Pal Power,” and I thought it would be nice to share with you today. I hope it will stir you to think about the friends who have enriched your life, and who do so today, and what they mean to you.
So here it is, “Pal Power:”
When it comes to adding some light to your days, few things have the power of a pal. You know, the kind who has spent a heap of days with you, seen you in all your moods and loves you anyway.
Pals know the real of you, beyond all the faces you wear. They know when to move in close, to hold you up, to speak hard truths.
They know when to give you room. They back you with their faith and trust when you step out in new directions.
Pals bathe you in their laughter, delight in your stories, applaud your triumphs, and celebrate your moments of joy.
And they’re there for you in the hard times, too, their words full of encouragement, their hearts full of understanding. They remind you of your strengths and slip you little handfuls of courage to get you through.
They dust you off when you fall, and laugh with you while you sort out your lessons, and never stop cheering for you, no matter what.
What greater ease, what more joyous comfort does life offer? Whatever the fates may bring, when you’re blessed with a worthy companion, you are blessed indeed.
Sonja is hunting for dog bane. She prizes it for its fibers, and tells me never to feed it to dogs. She keeps her eye out for plants that might yield dyes for the wool she will spin into soft yarns. We laugh at the burrs that stick to our clothes. She shows me how she felts the holes that happen when her scarf gets snagged. She calls the patches polka dots. The sun and blue sky disappear as we eat sandwiches of peanut butter and raw honey. We don’t notice. We have cocoa and raspberries and miles to explore, and it’s close enough to perfect for both of us right now. As we push through the brush, the creek sings happy January songs, and I drink in the winter colors, feeling lucky and blessed.
I hope that sometime you stop what you’re doing and really look at a tree, knowing, once again, that it’s alive, as much as you are, maybe more, and knowing that, not because someone told you, but because when you stopped to look, you saw how gloriously it danced for the morning.
