On the last day of clouds, or at least that’s what they say, the last day of this muted masterpiece, I walk along the edge of the lake at Brady’s Run. The air is moist and right on the edge of freezing, so that I am wide awake and everything is intense and clear, the colors, the whispers of the lake’s ripples, of their soft lapping on the shore, the sound washing between these hills, the high wind in the cottony clouds, the faint tapping of the trees’ naked branches. Beyond that, no sound. Only this symphony of the lake, and the hills, and the light, and the trees, On this, the last day, for now, of clouds.
Listen, I know there are explanations for these hieroglyphs. But the how of it is irrelevant. It’s not the origin of Shakespeare’s pen, the source of his ink or paper that speaks to us. It’s the story. So much is there, waiting to unfold for you as you listen. I would tell you what happened for me as I let this bit of tree art speak. It was quite a vivid dream. But I prefer to leave it up to you to see for yourself, or not, as you will. Nevertheless, look at the colors on the wooden canvas skin on the trunk of this old,fallen tree!
You could easily walk past, your mind registering “tree,” as if it were nothing more than an obstacle to be avoided. Or, if you were walking quietly enough, you might feel the nudge, hear the whispered invitation: Look. And if you did, you might be led into a secret gallery that displays the art of trees, and find a jeweled flower made of wood and time and weather, right there, in a circle of bark. You never know.
An invisible rod of some kind pokes me in the ribs as a voice I haven’t heard in ages commands Get up! Get out! It was She who must be Obeyed. So I tied on my leather boots, pulled on my thick jacket, my hat, grabbed extra batteries and the camera and got out. I knew why she had come. (The knowing simply appeared.) It was time to remember that winter brings the opportunity to see what’s here to see, now and only now. Put everything else aside. See. Be here, in these woods. My boots walk on blankets of pine. I notice crystallized sap on the bark of the tree, the vine, green even in winter, climbing up its side, the whole thing complete and perfect. Amen, I whisper. Hallelujah, amen.
The skies here stay overcast this time of year, sometimes for 10-12 days in a row. It’s a test. We’re a week in now with only partial sun due next Sunday and Monday, then full clouds return. Just this morning, it struck me this hunger is for color. It’s a visceral longing, deep and growling. I pull a memory of summer gardens from my mind and bathe in it, and it refreshes and restores me. Turning from the dream, I find myself gazing at the scene outside my window, saying to myself, “Still, there is this.”
Between snows, the winter floor lays bare, a tapestry of fallen leaves, pressed against the earth, protecting her, dissolving into her, nourishing her with their return. They’re soft and giving beneath my boots, their musky feminine fragrance enveloping me as I walk, tasting like that wondrous moment exactly between death and birth.
The only tale the woods can tell is the moment’s truth. There’s no pretense here. No fabrication. No memory or longing. Just the sheer isness of forest and snow: Sunlight on tree bark, the punctuation of animal tracks and long shadows, the call of a crow accentuating the silence. All of it breathing the shimmering Yes.
The week seems to have flown past, but I had a chance to relax over a cup of coffee this morning with my 80-some year old neighbor, Bob. He’s a colorful old codger who has worked as a farmer, mill electrician, and long-haul trucker. He’s a ham radio enthusiast and often tells me about flying his plane to Alaska one year to see if he could find a cousin’s grave..
He recently had a pacemaker installed and it’s taken him a few days to get his bearings. But today he was feeling great and was full of tales about his truck driving capabilities.
He told me about the time he asked Tom, the owner of a bridge painting company, why this big piece of equipment was sitting in the yard. “It’s too big to fit into the garage,” Tom told him. “Nobody can get it in.”
Bob looked at it and at the garage door, and back at the equipment. “Sure it can fit,” Bob said. “I’ll back it in there for you.” Tom said they had measured the thing. At its widest point, it was only two inches smaller than the door.
To everybody’s amazement, Bob hooked it up to his pick-up and backed it in, slick as a whistle. He grinned ear to ear as he told me the story, proud as he could be.
“Well,” I said, “You know what Henry Ford said, don’t you? ‘If you believe you can—or if you believe you can’t—you’re probably right.’”
Bob took that in and laughed, slapping his knees. “I never heard that one before! That’s pretty good.”
Have you ever accomplished something you weren’t quite sure you could do, but thought maybe you could if you tried? If you have, you understand Bob’s big grin. It’s a great feeling to have your faith in yourself validated, to stretch beyond what you know you can do into the untried and then succeed.
We all too often let fear of the unfamiliar get in our way. We worry about how we’ll look to others if we try something new and it doesn’t work out. But every effort is a learning experience; you gain knowledge about what works and what doesn’t. You expand your horizons. You build new skills; you learn how to work around limitations. Always, you can feel good about yourself for overcoming your doubt and hesitation, for trying something new.
And in most cases, if you really flub up, at least you have a good story to tell and, often, a chance to laugh at the mess you made of things.
We don’t often think of our daily challenges as requiring courage, but courage is exactly what you’re using when you dare to try something new. And as with any strength, you build it by using it. You gain confidence in yourself. You find yourself saying, “Sure I can!” or “I don’t know, but I’ll give it a try.” You start acting like “The Little Engine that Could,” chanting “I think I can; I think I can,” and making it all the way to the top of the big hill.
Thinking you can is the key. As old Henry Ford said, whether you believe that you can, or can’t, you’re probably right. The next time you’re facing a challenge, give it a try.
Wishing you a week brimming with confidence and success.
All at once, a breather, a moment of respite from the cold. Temperatures that in summer would have chilled me feel so balmy to me now that I go hatless and leave my mittens behind. It won’t last. February snow is no surprise. But today the sun is shining and I remember the taste of spring, its sounds and fragrances. The creek wears a layer of water over its ice. And on its banks, even the trees are dancing.
Before they even slip into their golden-yoked shells, before their bodies even begin to form bones and beaks and brains, the spirits of birds dream of flying. That is why they come here. They come pushed by dreams of sky rushing through feathers, of gliding through air, of darting among the branches of trees. They dream of swooping and falling and climbing again on strong wings, of racing with clouds and drifting on breezes. It will take effort, this dream. But they hold to it until it turns true and they find themselves soaring and free.
