I want to dig up this patch of ground In some magical way that would permit me to do so without disturbing a millimeter of it. and then to place it within a shadow box to hang on my wall, where I would gaze at it daily, or better yet, to package it in such a way that I could place it in your hands, where you could breathe its perfumes and truly see the depth of its livingness and be filled, as I am, with transcendent wonder that such a thing could be, that it could lie in total obscurity deep in a woods to sing its song only for the crows and deer and pines and be content with that, gloriously.
The afternoon is overcast with clouds that filter the light, turning it pearly. And it’s warm – well above freezing at last – and the wetlands call me. Frankly, it looks dreary. Dull browns and grays. “Color and form, Susan,” some inner mentor reminds me. These are gifts, these winter lessons. I toss my judgments into the sky, empty my pockets of labels, feel the wind, hear it in the branches and brush and reeds. Only the wind and nothing more, and it is moist and cold and wonderful. A light gleams from the edge of the woods and I step toward it and see it is a low spot with ice lingering on the blanket of leaves. So here it is, found, of course, exactly when it was least expected, exactly where, and exactly what I wanted and needed and hadn’t even asked for.
Remember the cluttered bulletin boards I mentioned at the beginning of the year? I shared my intention to re-do them and told you I had written it on my do-list. Well, I did redesign them, and I’m pleased with the result. They contain photos of a few of my pals, little “pokes” that say things like “Smile”, “Celebrate What Is,” “Doodle, “Read,” a couple of my ink doodles, and quotes and slogans and reminders that unfailingly wake me up.
The largest piece on the first board has grabbed my attention more than once this week. I don’t know the source. I heard it somewhere and scribbled it down. Anyway, here’s what it says: “Look around you. Appreciate what you have. Nothing will be the same in a year.”
I don’t know about you, but for me, that’s like, Pow! It just smacks me in the face with its wisdom and plain truth.
Here’s something else about that little group of sentences. It instantly reflects to you your level of optimism. Do the changes you imagine might be coming at you, at us all, in the coming year prompt feelings of hope and anticipation? Or do they evoke ripples of fear and dread?
There’s no right or wrong answer to that, by the way. You feel what you feel. The sentences just give you a way to notice what that is.
But I will say this about fear. Again, it’s a sentence I scribbled down while listening to something. I do that a lot. It’s why I’m developing a process for dealing with the scraps of paper I scribble on all the time. But that’s another story. The thing I heard about fear was “Fear is putting faith in what you don’t want to happen.” It could also be putting faith in what you think has happened or is happening now. Regardless of the time frame, fear is agreeing with yourself to believe in the thing that scares you. And unless that thing is standing right in front of you and growling in your face, you’re imagining it and putting faith in its reality.
There’s no judgment with that. It’s just an interesting observation about fear. It intrigues me because it asks me to evaluate where I’m putting my faith and my energy and attention.
We’re in the middle of a cold-snap here, the silver lining of which, for me, has been time to sit at my keyboard and dream. I gaze up at my bulletin boards and send loving thoughts to the pals pictured there, I read a quote or a prompt. I’ve resumed doodling. Eventually my eyes fall on the rectangle with the words, “Look around. Appreciate what you have. Nothing will be the same in a year,” and I give thanks.
Wishing you a week of appreciation and well-placed faith.
She dreams, on a frosty morning, that she is migrating with the wild geese. The wake of air that trails from their wings makes tunnels of spinning light as they stroke into the frozen dawn, their calls echoing against the cold.
Ahead, she sees the bay of a great lake, solid now, a flat steel gray, and she falls with a flurry of downy white flakes to its ice-heaped edges. Near the shore, winter reeds pen haiku with invisible ink on fresh snow.
An Irish setter walks past, stopping to read the lines, burying his nose in them. “Bailey!” a woman calls from a house that sits on a rise above the shore. “Bailey! Come!” And the dog trots off.
As a pale pink sun pushes above the horizon, its light spiraling in tunnels through the falling snow, the calls of geese echo from across the bay. She wakes, and finds a gray feather resting on her pillow, glistening with snow.
What if today, I wondered, were the last day? What if the great Here of the planet itself ceased to be, and all that remained of it was what remained in the memories of those who had dwelt in its embrace?
Would I take with me fields of goldenrod and daisies? A child’s face? Spruce boughs seen through a window etched with winter frost? Would I take the a loved one’s touch? The wind? The stars? The sound of a choir? Or of laughter? Or a guitar?
What would be etched in the book of my mind—what beauty, what love, what truth—if today were the very last day?
It’s one of those things you take for granted, fail to see, having shared space with it so long that you think of it no more often than you think, say, of the nail on the little toe on your left foot. It’s like the geranium I mentioned earlier, blooming its heart out over there on the hearth. Yet here it is, a mind-boggling absolute miracle, this green grace of branches that dances outside the north windows day after day. How we flatter ourselves to think we are aware, hey?
After endless days of low gray clouds, the sun emerged, and the world’s colors sang like the flute of some Piped Piper. I could do nothing but follow its song as it led me down winding country roads lined with bright snow, brought by the clouds I had endured, and now thanked. It’s a mistake to take weather personally, you know. But if you must, see it as a teacher, a mirror, an invitation, a gift. The Piper’s song, for instance, carried me to this creek, so still, so silent between its snow-dusted banks, so clearly reflecting the trees that leaned as if to see what was coming from upstream. I watched blue shadows roll down the hill, their color turning to sky as they slid across the waters and saw how the brush and grasses were gold in the afternoon’s low sun and how the snow shimmered in its light. I left the Piper there to sing its way down the creek. I got what I came for. I understood.
What to take with you: All the good things, all the things that coaxed you to open to love. Even the ones that hurt; maybe especially those. But pain is everywhere; what you’re looking for now are the gems. The times, for instance, colored by laughter, contentment, satisfaction, gratitude, joy. The moments when you felt open and joyous and free. The times you were engulfed in an ocean of compassion, for everyone, everywhere, because life is hard. The times you were at peace and in love with it all. That’s what you want to keep. And what to hope for? More of the same, please. More of the same.
You would think that in this biting cold, with its stark spaces and sharp air, the world would be a hostile place. Yet look how the azalea holds open its leaves. Look how gently the snow lays itself down.
The sound of the creek, filled by the midwinter thaw, enters the fisherman’s dreams. He feels himself planted firmly in its waters, leaning into them as they rush past his hip-high boots. He can smell the boots. His muscles move in his sleep as he imagines casting his line into the wind, watching it fly through the wet air that tastes of spring and drop into the waters, upstream. And in his dream he calls to the trout and feels the tug on his line as one bites, and he reels it in, oblivious now to the cold waters, to their push against his legs. It is only him and the fish now and this singular joy. And the joy feeds him, and he wakes filled with it, even though spring is still weeks away.
