Category: Bottles of Hours

When the thaw comes, water from the melting snow runs down the hills into the road, covering the lane nearest my property with water. Vehicles driving through it send a spray 20 feet into the air where it lands on the trees and the railroad ties that line my driveway and hold my mailbox. For days, I get to enjoy amazing ice formations from the seclusion of my house as I wait for the weather to warm a few more degrees.

Warm rain fell all day, washing away vast amounts of snow. From my studio window, I look out on what I call pinto snow, where patches of ground blanketed with rust-brown oak leaves appear, reminding me of the markings on pinto horses.

I welcome the warmth, even though its stay will be brief. Tonight the rain will turn to snow, and the patches will vanish like pinto ponies galloping over the hill. But I will remember the way they came, with warmth and hope and rain.

Outside my window low clouds cover the sky. The frozen snow along the road is smeared with mud splashed by the passing cars. The birds are napping somewhere out of sight.

But here, on a shelf, carnations spice the air, their ruffled petals, pink and white as springtime, sing to me that I am loved.

I gazed out the window at the snow. “Deer tracks,” my mind noted. But I didn’t really see them. Instead, I saw an image of the hillside in springtime, covered with fresh greenery and heaps of tiny pink and white spring beauties. It was a wishful daydream, reassuring somehow. The spring beauties really are there, asleep beneath the snow, beneath the nurturing earth. And they will come. In their own good time they will come.

As the daydream dissolved, I noticed I was looking at the deer tracks again. I know deer live in the woods up the hill, but I only get to see them once or twice a year. They’re content up there, and safe. Here was evidence that they’re still around, that they visit at night, walking through when I can’t see them, when the world is still and the traffic on the road below me ceases for a few hours, except for an occasional passing car.

The sight of the tracks was as reassuring as my daydream of springtime, a reminder that beauty and grace are real, even when it’s not time for them to show themselves to my waiting, hungry eyes.

Way, way back, before time began, God put on his artist hat and painted the creation. He used every color on his infinite palette and every inch of space.

He had just finished the last stroke and was stepping back to look at it, grinning, when Mrs. God came in with a plate of sandwiches for their lunch.

When she saw what he had done, she just stopped dead in her tracks, her mouth open in astonishment.

“Like it?” God asked.

“Oooooooo!” she gasped, catching her breath again. “It’s glorious!”

“Yes, I thought it was pretty good myself,” God said, pick up one of the sandwiches. “It just needs one more thing.”

“What’s that?” Mrs. God asked.

“Just a little touch to capture the feeling I get inside whenever I see you,” God said with a twinkle in his eye. Then turning toward the creation, and drawing a powerful breath that came all the way from his toes, he pointed his index finger at it and with a booming voice that is still echoing to this day, he uttered his command: “Dance!”

And so it did, and does, and so do we. Even when we don’t know it.

Here in this lovely mid-winter now, in this earth-breath where the stream flows open beneath the rusty spent leaves of young oaks, where white sycamores reach to the sky and the snow lies in rounded mounds above the singing waters, is reason enough to keep on.

Here, in this vast lonely landscape, with my boots kicking up powdered diamonds and wee birds chirping in the trees, I watch the play of light and shadow and need nothing more.

The slow melodious rhythm of it all wraps me in its wisdom; the clarity of its light heals my heart. Here in this lovely singing now, in this perfect moment, peace dances glorious and free, even though it is winter.

You would think, given the number of birds that share our world, that finding a feather would be a common thing. But it’s not. It’s really quite special to come across one. It marks the day. The moment seems to hold some unspoken message about the connections between things.

When you find a feather, it feels as if you have been given a gift, as if it was put exactly there, where you would find it. It whispers to you of your ability to fly above the day’s cares, to reach for the skies, to be free. It whispers to you that you are loved,

That’s why I keep them and prize them as rare jewels.

You know how it is. When you find a place that suits your fancy and serves the best grub in town, you tell your buds. They try it out and spread the word, and pretty soon the place is filled to the rafters. Even when there really aren’t any rafters or, for that matter, walls.

But there is a sign on a tree, hung way down low, where everybody can see it, that says, “No mask, no shirt, no shoes . . . C’mon in!” (I think it’s a key part of the charm.)

Today a happy little pink-toed possum ambled in. He nearly cleaned out the buffet.

Hot on heels was a sleek black squirrel, and he munched away to his heart’s content.

It’s a good thing the birds all got there early, ate their fill at breakfast. I put in a call for a double order of fixin’s for tomorrow.

You never know who might show up next.

Make Doodles!

With the birds gone from their nests and the leaves gone from their boughs, the sycamores were finally alone.

For a long time, they stood together simply enjoying the silence. They watched as winter settled in, quieting the stream, blanketing the hills with her snow. They napped beneath her deep clouds and dreamed beneath her glittery stars.

But now they were well rested and wide awake.

They chatted about the subtly lengthening days and delighted in seeing the first V of geese flying northward. Deep beneath the frozen soil, they felt the delicate stirring of their roots.

“Tonight is a new moon, my love,” one whispered to the other. They knew, from their ancient memories that only one more would come before springtime arrived. “The stars will hang bright and low.”

“Ah, yes,” the other smiled. “What do you say? Shall we dance?”