Day 22 – After the Big Snow
Day 21 – Snowbirds
“Good Mmorning, Little Friends,” I sing as I scatter sunflower seeds on the rocks beneath the lilac bush. “Here’s your breakfast.”
Minutes later, they came . . .
It was a fine feast, and a good time was had by all. Especially me.
Day 20 – Frost Forest at Sunrise
The sky’s colors sing the coming of the sun as it pushes upward to clear the eastern hills. As they brighten, they illuminate the frost forest, etched so silently during the night on my north-facing window.
I hold my breath in wonder at the scene. How could I not be thrilled!
What a gift!
What a sign!
The Nature of Your Path
It’s Saturday night as I write this and I keep hearing an inner voice say, “Tomorrow, snow. Big Snow. Big Snow. Big Snow.”
It only happens a couple of times a year here and it’s magical. The kid in you can hardly sleep the night before. And the big waxing moon doesn’t help either. A full moon AND a big snow. Wowzers!
You can feel it coming somewhere deep in your bones. It’s the big unknown of it that gets you. It could be really scary or it could be wondrous and fun. It could almost bury you or make a sharp turn a couple miles down the road and almost miss you altogether
Whatever it brings, you’re as ready as you can be. Bring it on.
But in the meantime, a part of you that resides in a larger dimension retreats in prayer and contemplation. No matter how it affects you personally, storms this big always bring tragedies and suffering. You wrap the world in compassion and ask only to serve.
I used to think that serving others in times of great challenge meant you should get out there with your chain saw or bullhorn or something. My own contributions seemed so insubstantial compared with what the heroes do. But then I figured out that I am who I am and the best I can do is the best I can do. And that is all I’m responsible for.
I heard a man put it into words that sum up what I’m trying to say: He was explaining to someone why he’s comfortable with his view of things and the way he interacts with the world. ”I trust in the nature of my path,” he said, “and I trust that I’m being guided to go where I need to go.” That seemed such a sane and mature thing to say.
When I walk through the woods or fields here, or along the creek, I am often struck by the amazing variety that surrounds me. And how everything has its place and plays its part. And somehow it all works together like some perfectly choreographed dance. Why would our own paths through life be any different?
So, a Big Snow is coming. And I can hardly wait for the adventure.
In the meantime, you know what I’m going to do? I’m going to savor the ambience of the room, its soft colors and gentle light, its warmth and mildly fragrant air. It’s peaceful. I am grateful. I am blessed.
May you be blessed, too, and at peace with the nature of your path. May the storms pass swiftly and leave you unharmed.
Warmly,
Susan
Day 19 – Different Views
See that stop sign at the base of the hill? That’s where the side road merges onto the truck route that runs past my house. I love the view from here, and today’s winter hues especially please me.
Just behind that stop sign you see a group of dark pines. The road swerves behind them and climbs a hill. Above that dark stand of pines, up past some bare treetops, you see the tops of three more pines. They aren’t really pines; they’re spruces. And these are three of the six that border my house. I call them my sentinels. We have a decades-long history.
Here’s two of them, dancing for you:
From their very top branches, you can look east and see the two roads merging. Up the hill behind my house is the remnant of another road that used to join the main one. They formed a stretch of a trail that, a hundred years ago, ran between New York and Chicago. These trees and my house have been here all that time. Double that time if you want to know the whole story.
They tell me my house used to be a stagecoach stop. I know one of the men who lived here before me was a blacksmith. A friend showed me where he’s buried, pointed out the remains of his brick oven down the hill on the other side of the road. Said the old guy was a student of the Bible, could quote it to you all day long.
He probably had an interesting perspective of things. He saw life through a far different set of lenses than any of us wears today.
Like him, the trees have their own unique way of understanding how they fit into the where-and-when of their lives. The passersby on the road below them each have their own. Just like you and me.
I like the way that looking at things from different points of view broadens you, lets you see things in more depth. It kind of makes you feel richer somehow, doesn’t it?
Day 18 – Marching Orders
My friend and I agree. Big things are ahead, maybe harrowing things. And we had better be ready. They’re going to require all the love we can let flow. Every ounce of it. Every drop.
That’s what we’re here for, after all. To be conduits for love.
(You already know how. You’ve always known.)
But being humans and finding ourselves in a most strange world that tosses us into all sorts of roles and stories, we tend to forget that we came here to be a channel where love could flow. Right now is the time to remember that and to clear out anything that gets in its way. Let it flow. Full force. No matter what.
(Oh, and just in case you need reassurance or reminding, it feels awesomely good.)
Day 17 – On Leading Horses to Water
You don’t have to be right or to prove anything. That’s a good thing to know. It’s better simply to be kind, to be present and kind. Besides, as that Jeff Peterson dude says, “Truth is always learned; it’s never told.”
It’s the old thing about leading a horse to water. Once you get to the stream, the best thing you and the horse can do is to stop on its grassy banks, relax together for a while, feel the breeze, smell the smells, maybe tell each other stories, share a laugh or two.
Works every time.
Day 16 – Realigning with Joy, Part 2
I woke remembering my intention to exchange my complaints for appreciation.. That in itself made me happy and I began the day with an easy smile.
The sun was out, a somewhat rare occurrence of late, and the temperature had risen above freezing. It was a perfect day for grabbing some photos. But I’d better go now. The forecast said clouds would be moving in by afternoon.
That’s when I discovered what, precisely, it is that I don’t like about winter. Everybody who knows me at all well has heard my annual statements about the season. I tell them, year after year, that we are part bear and should be hibernating now until the berries are ripe in the spring.
I don’t like being cold, I tell them. But today I realize that it’s not the sharpness of cold against my skin. As long as my body feels warm, I am okay with cold air. Sure, there are extremes to avoid, But you can be exposed to surprisingly cold air without sustaining damage. So it wasn’t the cold that I didn’t like.
I complained (as I am wont to do) about the season’s lack of color. But this year I am reminded how much I appreciate its hues. So I couldn’t blame that either.
I was thinking about this as I pulled on my boots and laced them and tied a double bow so the laces wouldn’t come undone and trip me. I put on the fuzzy hat with the wonderful ear flaps and tied it under my chin. I slid into the puffy winter jacket and zipped it up and snapped the snaps, and then I pulled on my gloves.
“Good grief,” some little voice inside me sighed, sounding impatient. “Can we go now?”
I could only laugh. That was why I didn’t like winter! You had to go through this huge, long ritual before you could go out and play. In summer, you could just run out the door.
I felt like the voice belonged to the five-year-old inside me who was chafing at the bit to get outside. I imagined taking her hand and walking with her to the creek, and showing her how to notice the feel of the air on her face and how the sun slightly warmed it. We listened to the winter birds and to the trees’ bare branches clicking in the gentle wind. Then there was the creek and we carefully climbed down the steep bank to its edges and wondered at its colors and dance and song.
As I peeled off my hat and gloves and jacket and boots when I got back home, I smiled at what I had experienced. That’s what its like when you trade your complaints for appreciation. The joy-beams get through.
Day 15 – Realigning with Joy
“I am too full of complaints,” I say to myself, complaining about my complaining.
Admitting that allows me to see it as another learning opportunity. Complaints block the the joy-beams’ glow, after all. I need to call up the janitors to sweep them away.
I laugh as I hear the words “Your next assignment, should you choose to accept it” echo from some hallway of my mind.
I accept the challenge and begin by asking myself what attitude I would like to install in place of complaining. (Once you decide to do something, you may as well begin.) How about appreciation? Yeah. That would be cool. I make up a game. (Call if an exercise or a practice if you will.) Here it is:
Every time I notice myself complaining, I will choose to identify three things in my immediate vicinity that I appreciate.
- First, I will say “Thank you,” to the part of me that called the complaint to my notice.
- Then I will say “I’m sorry; please forgive me” because I fell into the trap of complaining.
- Then I will say “I love you” because the world is stuffed with things that offer joy.
- After that I’ll identify the three things, just for the delight of it.
And that’s the game.
We’ll see how it goes.
The Revelations of the Trees
Almost everybody is entranced by flowers I suppose. I know I am. All they have to do is appear and I’m hooked. But trees are something else.
I think we take them for granted for the most part, forgetting that they are as alive as we are, and quite wondrous. We can walk right past them and give them no more heed than we do a sign post or light pole.
I’ve come to know some of them fairly well, having lived in close proximity with them for a few decades. They’re like a lot of living things in that if you give them your respectful attention, they will reveal much of their nature to you and fill you with interesting imaginings.
For the past couple of years, as winter began to give way to spring, I’ve noticed that I don’t want to say goodbye to the winter trees. It’s not that they go away or anything. But in springtime the flowers will return and I dance off with them, forgetting about the trees altogether.
They don’t mind. That’s one of the things I appreciate about them. They get pretty busy themselves for the green part of the year, and then there’s the autumn display. It’s winter when they draw my attention to them again, and they in turn reveal their gifts.
This past week I noticed hugging trees and the exposed bones of two pines who lived long, long ago. May they gift you with interesting imaginings, too.
