Day 36 – Never Underestimate the Little Guys

They roll with the punches. They know how to cope. They’re tougher than you might think.

They have friends in the background who cheer them on and sing, “Hang on! Hang on!”

And besides, somewhere deep within, they trust that they were made for this day.

Day 35 – At the Edge of the Storm

In the afternoon I tried to nap but couldn’t sleep. The kid in me is too full of anticipation over the coming storm. We’ve had freezing rain all day. The spruce boughs are heavy with its crystals. It taps against the window panes as if someone is hurling thousands of needles at them. But I am waiting for the snow. Once it starts, they say, we could get an inch an hour.

I wasn’t even a teen yet when I adopted the Girl Scout motto: “Be Prepared.” I’m ready, as best I can be, for whatever the storm may bring. My highest hope is that I’ll wake in the morning to a warm house and electricity. I pray for all those who won’t, and for those who will brave the ice and snow to restore life-saving power where the storm takes it down.

I am moved by the courage and compassion that people show in emergencies and when they must rise to defend and protect the things they hold dear. From all over the world, stories come in now of people taking to the streets to reclaim their freedom from would-be tyrants. It stirs me to my core.

Whatever storms may come, we will rise to the occasion. Whatever power is lost will be restored.

Day 34 – Unstoppable

I woke to the news that Punxatany Phil saw his shadow. (How could he not, with all those TV lights!) meaning Spring is still six weeks away.

But I saw an awesome flock of Canadian geese flying north, honking and honking, and honking.

And even the date joins in their song: Oh Two, Oh Two, Two Oh Two Two

Honk.

Day 33 – The Coming Storm

At 2:30 in the afternoon the sun was behind the south hill, but the day was unusually warm and bright. I went out to bring in the rest of my firewood. Starting tomorrow night, they say, we’ll get between three to six inches of a “wintry mix” of sleet and snow, topped with a glaze of ice. It’s the kind of weather that brings down power lines and trees. It’s best to be prepared.

Before I turn to take the last log into the house, I ask Mother Maple and the Hawk Tree to protect me and all their children, as if they had such powers, and send them wishes to fare well through the storm. Both of them have seen many storms before. This is nothing new either for them or for me. And truth be told, it will impact other regions of the country far more than the one where we stand. I say these things to the trees only because we have spent many years together and they hold a special place in my heart.

The good news is that tomorrow is Ground Hog’s Day, and the coming storm’s approach means the sky will be blanketed with clouds. According to the legend, when the ground hog doesn’t see his shadow on the second day of February, it portends an early spring. In my book a little storm seems a small price to pay for such luxury. Bring it on.

Day 32 – Tracks in the Snow

In the light of the afternoon sun you can see that deer have passed by, that the little juncos were out pecking through the snow for seeds. The long shadows of the trees follow the curves of the hill down its slopes. And the snow itself glitters as if a choir of angels had spent the night sprinkling diamond dust from the heavens.

“This is your reward,” I think to myself as I climb the hill. The snow rises in glistening little clouds around my boots. I stop for a moment and listen to the silence of the woods. The birds have had their breakfasts and are resting now, conserving their energy. I’m as grateful on their behalf as I am for my own sake that the sun has reappeared with its gentle winter warmth. We needed this.

 I notice that my face is wearing a smile as I continue my climb, adding my tracks to those the animals made. They seem to link us together somehow, these signs that we were here, on this hill, in the shimmering snow at this moment in time. “Every now and then,” I sometimes say, “a moment comes along that makes all the rest of them worth it.” This, surely, is one of those.

For the Birds

The temperatures here this week have been in the teens and single digits, keeping me mainly inside. My only certain excursions are my trip to retrieve the mail from the box at the far end of my driveway—an adventure in itself—and a few trips to the big, flat rocks atop the retaining wall where I put the sunflower seeds for the birds.

The birds have become a source of fascination. Not only do they entertain me and teach me, but they touch me with their seeming vulnerability. It amazes me that they can endure such cold, and survive when every source of water is frozen and their main sources of food are buried beneath what, to them, must seem to be mountains of snow.

They kindle my sense of wonder and awe at the way the world works, at how things are woven together in complex and beautiful ways meant to benefit every living creature. Even us. Even when we have a hard time seeing how everything we encounter sustains and grows us. Even when life seems anything but beautiful.

I don’t think the birds digging in the snow for hidden seeds think how amazing it is that their feet don’t freeze, or that mere feathers are enough to keep their little bodies warm. They take such things for granted. We take for granted the things that keep us going, too. Our hearts beat, our lungs breathe, our wounds heal without our giving them a thought or thinking that we ought to be in charge. We laugh and love without asking how it can be that we do such things. And yet, aren’t they miraculous?

In some ways, I’ve noticed, the birds seem smarter than us. I don’t think they grumble about the cold, or about the work involved in digging with tiny feet through deep snow to find a little morsel of food. They don’t waste time in worry or complaining or fear. They just go about their business and get things done. They spread the word to others when they discover a decent eatery and share their table with birds of every shape and color and size. They don’t pick fights. They learn who the bullies are and simply keep their distance. And most of the time, they just seem so downright happy to be birds being birds. It’s kind of wonderful really.

If the weather hadn’t driven me to spend my days inside, peering out my window for signs of life, I would have missed all these little lessons and observations. It’s just one more example of the way that life weaves things together in such beneficial ways. As my neighbor often says as he points his finger skyward, “It kind of makes you think Someone’s watching out for us, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” I tell him, smiling. “It certainly does.”

Wishing you a week of beautiful moments.

Warmly,
Susan

Day 31 – Gifts of the Heart

A story I wrote for an old blog in 2011 . . .

The old man was still stiff when he woke. With great effort, he managed to prop himself up on his elbow and lift himself to a sitting position on his bed. The pain shot down his spine. This was the fifth day; it wasn’t getting any better.

He had just finished pulling on his clothes when his son called. “You want to help me cut some wood? We’re out,” The younger man said.

Over the years the old man had learned that keeping active was often the cure for aches and pains. And besides, he had a belly full of ambition that the years just couldn’t use up. His neighbor lady was out of wood, too, he thought; he’d bring her enough to get her by for a day or two. And besides, he’d promised her he would bring the Sunday paper.

Clenching his teeth against the pain, he pulled on his heavy coat and boots, tucked the paper under his arm and climbed into his old pick up truck.

He loved the sound of the chain saw cutting through the wood. And this was cherry; it would burn hot and long. As he worked with his son in the cold morning, he almost forgot the burning pain in his back. The two men worked together, the steam pumping from their mouths, for over an hour. When they were finished, hefty piles of logs filled the beds of their trucks.

Spotting a few scrap slices of wood on the snow, the old man bent to pick them up and threw them in his truck’s cab, smiling. She would like these, he thought. She’ll think they’re pretty.

Minutes later, he was knocking at her door. “Hope you got a pot of coffee going,” he said. “That cold out there is damp.”

She poured coffee and put a pot of chili on the stove to warm as he told her all the local gossip. “I didn’t come for the lunch!” he protested as she put a steamy bowl in front of him. But he ate it greedily and said, “That’s the best chili I ever had.”

They hauled in the logs together and as she lit a fire in the kitchen’s wood stove, he headed back out to the truck. When he returned, he set four little slabs of wood on her counter top and said, “You might want to take pictures of these. Pretty aren’t they?”

“That red in the center is called heart wood,” he told her, “and this stuff on the edge is sap wood. See the rings in the middle?”

He drank another half cup of coffee and pointed out things in the paper that interested him. Then he slowly pulled himself from the chair, groaning. “I think I’ll call doc tomorrow,” he said. “My back’s not better at all.”

She watched through the window as he walked back to his truck, sorry for his pain, and grateful for the wood, with its heart, and for her neighbor, and his heart. And she was warmed by the kindness and the fire.