A two-lane highway cuts across this slope, a truck route, lightly traveled. On its far side the slope continues, even more steeply, to the flat, wooded valley and broad field down below. I was watching the snow fall when a movement caught my eye. A buck, tall and regal, was bounding down the hill. Just then, a car sped up the road, doing maybe fifty miles an hour. In less than a second, their paths would intersect. I held my breath to brace myself against the imminent collision. And then, as if it were born to do so, without as much as a heartbeat’s hesitation, the deer leaped into the air in a high, perfect arc above the speeding car, and bounded down into the field, disappearing in the woods there. And the snow continued to fall on the hill as if nothing had happened at all.
It was an odd winter, with hardly any snow and none that stuck around over a day. I count that as a blessing, considering the other challenges the season held. The relative mildness was a comfort and a gift. But still, when snow fell for a couple hours this morning, the child in me was glad, and we climbed, she and I, up the hill atop crystalline flakes, listening to the silence, feeling the dance of the soft light that caressed the bark of the trees. Often, I’ve found, what is surpasses all you could have imagined or hoped for. Haven’t you noticed?
I wish you could see the smile on my face as I write these words to you. I’m sliding invisible gifts your way between each and every letter. You could be starting to feel them right about now.
I want to say a few more things about my experience with what I call “the chem bomb situation.” Just a few. Then we’ll move on. Okay?
For starters, let me say I’ve had some sizable shocks in my life, but this one topped them all. I’ve seen the story morph in the media over time. Now, in most places I’ve seen, it’s something like “the train derailment that spilled some toxins in Ohio.” And the train derailment was bad, erupting in a fire so fierce that over 50 regional fire companies responded. But what was worse, and that goes unmentioned now, is that a series of events led to dumping tank cars of toxic materials into a pit and setting it on fire. An enormous cloud of a million pounds of toxins, trapped by a thick layer of clouds, spread over miles, followed by rain.
I’m about five miles down wind from “ground zero.” I watched the black toxic cloud coming at me from my kitchen window. It hung over my house and land a long while, turning it darker outside in late afternoon than any midnight I have ever seen. Over the next several days, my body kept surprising me with new symptoms, and according to local reports many others were experiencing the same.
It was quick a shock to discover what had happened. All I knew for sure was that I was in a significantly altered world. I gathered all the information I could find to help me figure out how I wanted to respond. After a while, I realized that I had no control over the circumstances I found myself in. I couldn’t “fix things” or make what had happened un-happen.
“So,” I finally said to myself, “what are my responsibilities here?” And myself reminded me that my primary intention is to be a joy warrior. I saw that in order to do that effectively, I must first attend to my own health and stability. So that is where I focused. I honed my diet and allowed my body to sleep as much as it needed. I did my research, made my observations, kept my notes and logs. I consciously turned my thoughts toward things that brought me inspiration and joy, I ventured out with my camera. I made photographs and poems. I listened to good music and read good books. And now, at long last, I believe I am gaining the upper hand with my symptoms. I am strong enough to expand my focus to other things.
That’s the last I intend to say about the whole chemical bomb business. I just wanted to sum up what really happened here. But the world is awash in disasters. May God have mercy on us all. Besides, I have better fish to fry. For one thing, I want to tell you a story.
It was cold and windy and spitting bits of rain when I came out of the store, pushing my grocery cart through the parking lot’s puddles. As I neared my car, I saw that a man was huddling against the car next to mine, his hoodie pulled up against the weather, having a smoke before he got in his car.
He glanced at me briefly then side-stepped his way to the back of his car so I could open the door on mine and stow my groceries. He remained with his back to me the whole time, probably to shield me from his cigarette’s smoke.
I finished putting my groceries in my car, and as I guided my empty cart between our cars to take it to the collection rack, I said, “How ya doin’ today?” The man spun around and looked me right in the face, his blue eyes crinkled into a smile above a grizzly, white beard, “Why, thank you!” he said, his voice filled with surprise, as if I’d just handed him a thousand bucks. “Thank you!” I returned his smile and wished him a fine afternoon.
That’s the whole story. I thought you might like it.
Thank you for bearing with me as I adjusted to my region’s catastrophe. May you forever be free of such things. They’re no fun at all. And life these days seems to dish out plenty of challenges for each of us without them, doesn’t it? So may we kind. And may we see life’s goodness and beauty as we journey together on the trail. I’m so glad to have you along.
I see you, brave little leaves, poking up from last year’s survivors into the mild March air even though the nights still promise more frost. I understand; I came early, too. You can only wait so long before you just have to make the leap. Comfort is fine, as far as it goes, but oh, the irresistible lure of new adventures!
In the corner of the garden, heliobores wear crystal droplets fallen from a colorless sky in ribbons of frozen rain and snow. March, who transports us from winter into spring, performs her mission adeptly, with subtlety and grace. We shiver in the cold, tempted to scowl. But there, in the corner of the garden, bold blossoms open, singing songs of resilience, painting our minds with sweet hope.
Haha! Just look at you, there, opening your arms to the light. I’ve been longing to see you, you, brave rising green thing of springtime. so suddenly tall, breathing the sun, Just look at your joy, look at you singing triumph over winter’s long sleep, over the desolation of brown and gray. Oh wee one, who will burst into yellow summer flowers, welcome! Welcome! Just look at you there!
Even in the morning’s cold you come and we trade chirps and songs, forgetting everything else except the way the clear air shivers with the happiness of our greeting.
The light from the rising sun hits the maples atop the western hill, and all of a sudden the world is awake and eager. Even the trees still in shadow dance, the gladness of morning spilling brand new chances everywhere. Birds chirp; dew glistens. I pour fresh coffee and nod my head at the scene, my eyes smiling my yes. Bring it on, wondrous world. Bring it on.
Some time back I read where this scientist discovered that different emotions produced different lines on paper using a machine hooked on one end to a human, on the other to a pen. Everybody’s sadness made the same shape. So did their mad and their joy. I remembered that as I gazed at the budding maple, its limbs writing joy across the nearly spring sky.
I walk into the woods in search of signs of spring’s emergence. Here and there, blades of grass poke through the layers of last year’s fallen leaves. But mostly the browns eclipse the bits of green. I am weary of the hue and eager for curled ferns and wee flowers. Then a whisper floats into my awareness: Remember winter’s gift to you. Oh, yes! Lessons in color and form. And there at my feet, I see the day’s offering, a lacy filigree of white atop a curled wave of sugared brown, a treasure, to be sure. Remember, comes the whisper. And I nod, and gently smile.
