You are currently browsing the monthly archive for January 2009.
Abandoned robin's nest beneath our house
Each time we begin a new project or relationship, the opportunities for self-discovery and spiritual illumination occur. We discover ways we limit ourselves, ways we cling to expectations, ways we remain in old grooves, refusing to change.
This 365 day blog with its promise of “opening the door and going outside” for an entire year has already taught me so much. I can’t believe how the simple act of committing to a new discipline can swing wide the doors of our awareness and increase understanding.
First, there’s the challenge of actually opening the door and going outside each day. This has actually been one of the easier parts of the commitment. (Although we’re expecting frigid temperatures to soar in from the north later this week; will it be possible to actually enjoy spending time outdoors when the temperature hovers below zero? Stay tuned to find out!)
Some things I have learned in the past three weeks: you can’t please everyone. This is a simple statement which of course may seem obvious to many. Yet the significance of this has come clear to me through this blog. Some people like pictures. Others like words. Some people enjoy factual reporting and informative posts; others like the spiritual connections and spider-web understandings. Some people enjoy the rambling missives which relate to we humans; others solely prefer discussions of nature. Some want flowery visual sense-filled words; others want practical words. What’s a writer to do? How do you please every one of your friends and relatives?
In other blogs, with audiences of similar interests (such as gaia.com) it’s easy to comply to what appeals to the majority. In this blog, I’ve finally had to return to my own inner guidance. To not rely on what “others” want. To relinquish control; to simply express what the Outdoors in conjunction with the Deepest Self teaches on a each day. To get out of my own way, my own desire to control. To share what Nature wants to share; not necessarily what Kathy wants to share. This lesson has continually been drummed in.
I’ve also had to let go of a desire for readership. This has never been a concern in other blogs; I was surprised at the ferocity of the desire to have readership. It rocked me off balance. Why this sudden concern about readership, and why did it matter?
At first, readers of this blog spiked to 70-80 readers a day. Now it’s down to about 30 hits. And you know what? Letting go of the ego’s desire for readership has been so fulfilling. There’s a peace which seems to be building. I am feeling so grateful to every one of you who stop by: my parents, my mother-in-law, brother-in-law, brothers, Gaia friends, local friends, random drop-ins. My heart is actually swelling in gratitude for whoever stops by to read and participate. (fill in the blanks with your name; I’m thinking of so many of you fondly right now and wanting to type out everyone’s names….at least 30 of you wonderful people….and wanting to thank all of you so much for your presence in my life…)
I can also now imagine feeling perfectly happy if no one reads…..an imagination which wasn’t possible a week ago. This is my own personal commitment, something I need to do, and it ultimately doesn’t matter about readership. What a vital lesson to remember again and again! The peace that is re-appearing with this realization is lovely. I feel quite humbled to have experienced this lesson. How many times do we keep looking outside of ourselves for validation, rather than returning to the center, to the personal truths we already know?
Today I walked down to the Eagle Pond. It felt so warm at 22 degrees. Who could imagine the tropical feeling one gets at 22 degrees when the wind isn’t blowing? However, on the return trip, up the road, the wind blew fiercely. My cheeks felt frozen and red and I longed to get home, fast. Barry was out fishing. It’s been his third trip in a row with no fish. He said he’ll be in counseling if he doesn’t catch a fish soon. 
The art of Melissa Hronkin
Yesterday I stepped out the front door and headed north with my good friend Catherine towards Calumet, Michigan. We ventured towards the Vertin Gallery to view an exhibit by Ontonagon artist Melissa Hronkin called “Wintering–Into the Hive”.
What a lovely reception ensued! But first, may we backtrack to the city of Hancock where Catherine, Karen and I shared a dinner at a Gemignani’s Italian Restaurant? If you visit, please try the wild mushroom stuffed ravioli topped with marinara sauce. Very delicious, indeed.
Afterwards we decided to walk the three or four blocks to another art reception at the Copper Country Arts Center. The thermometer announced 15 degrees, later followed by a frigid 14 degrees. I don’t know about the other two ladies, but I was freezing. My feet felt like icicles and it seemed necessary to dance every other step in order to keep warm. (The others weren’t dancing, strangely enough, simply walking calmly down the sidewalk like it was a balmy 23 degrees.)
After the interesting exhibit of paintings, ceramics, photography and other pieces (such as shoes displayed with fur and feathers and other oddities….including a shoe created to be a mini golf-course tee) we began our trek back towards the cars. Karen suggested we walk slower, rather than faster. What??? She calmly explained that when we tense up, or hunch our shoulders in the cold, we actually start to feel colder because our muscles are contracted. I tried to relax. Strangely enough, it seemed to work. I suddenly felt much warmer. For at least ten seconds, anyway.
We drove another fifteen miles to Calumet to the Vertin Gallery. What interests me lately is the way people create art from nature. How they take sticks and stones and bark and feathers and wax from beehives and create incredible works of art.
They’ve stepped outdoors and looked around with an artist’s eye and discovered ways to make new beauty from nature’s materials. Melissa raises bees; she utilizes the wax from the hives to make lovely pictures. Although I don’t have the technique written down in exact proportion (so you can copy with wax from your own bee hives) I believe she blends wax and other ingredients, and then applies these over photographs and original artwork.
I did ask Melissa if it was acceptable to take photos; she agreed. She seems a lovely person, as well as a talented artist. She spoke briefly to the group at the reception about the way bees winter in the hive. Apparently, the Queen slumbers at the center of the hive. The drones are kicked out in the autumn, eventually starving or freezing to death as winter approaches. The worker bees surround the Queen, keeping her warm, taking turns at the colder outer rim of the cluster.
How much thought do we bring to the wild animals wintering over in the northwoods? We might ponder the bear in his den, the snakes burrowed deep in the earth, the deer curled in the cedar swamp. I had never before considered bees, and their survival during the six months of winter in our cold climate.
The honeybees have been endangered recently; we have reason to hope they make it through the long winters in the hive. They pollinate at least 90 different kinds of crops and make it possible for us to munch on apples during summer months. One third of our diet comes from bee-pollinated plants. Shall we say a prayer that the bees winter well in their hive, that the Queen remains protected, that they will live to buzz in our gardens and meadows?
When you can't see anything outside after dark....this is what really exists
The Ojibway called the January moon Gichi-manidoo-giizis ”Great Spirit Moon”. The full moon hangs high in the sky tomorrow night, at its zenith at exactly 10:27 p.m. EST.
Two nights ago I wandered out and snapped photos of its almost-full beauty. No clouds obscured its white face. My breath blew out wisps of mist. The landscape seems enchanted in the shadowed world; a patterned black-and-white painting revealed itself beneath the rounded moon.
Last night, a curtain of clouds covered our orb. Yet the moonlight must have penetrated somehow, for the light illuminated landmarks which remain dark in the new moon pitch blackness. I could still see the woodpile, the sway of branches, and snow drifts pushed high by the snowplow.
In the eerie half-light, a coyote howled in the distance. I started snapping photos, interested to discover what existed unseen by the limited eye. The above photo captures light falling snow and other orb-like wonders. The snow reflected a green tint, so unlike the blue tint of full daylight.
This after-dark world filled me with delight. Usually I’m in bed by 10 p.m. and miss much of the beauty of the nighttime. My husband is a night owl and likes to prowl around the garage until wee hours, so he often shares stories of night-time happenings. Once, on my 40th birthday, he roused me from bed to view the Aurora Borealis, the northern lights, in flickering greens and faint reds. It was a glorious birthday present.
Hopefully we’ll find more during the summer to share on this Outdoors Blog. If not, we’ll at least hold the memory of this cold January night with the camera capturing yet another beauty of nature.
I’m heading off for today’s Outdoor Adventure in a couple hours and won’t return until late (another view of the darkness!) Will report back tomorrow with perhaps a more unusal entry!
Modern blue snowshoes
Today was a big day. You betcha. I opened our shed door and dug around inside until discovering….you’re right….the snowshoes! Although it’s still possible to walk very slowly in the nine to eleven inch snow base, it’s simply not practical to hike far distances. Yesterday my knees hurt while exploring out in the snow, so today the snowshoes made their Winter ’09 premier appearance.
Let me tell you — walking in snowshoes is not for the out-of-shape. Anyone who snowshoes regularly knows it’s a real work-out. Those of us not in optimal physical shape start huffing and puffing before we’ve maneuvered up and down one or two ravines. You don’t need to go to the gym if you snowshoe daily. Do give it a try. (you may want to build up slowly until your stamina increases to match the pace of the snowshoes.)
One of the ABC’s of Snowshoeing is: tamp down your first trail and then re-use it daily. If you break through a foot of snow on Monday, Tuesday is bound to be an easier hike. By Wednesday you’re grinning at the relative ease. By Thursday it’s snowed again and you start all over breaking a trail.
This area boasts a famous priest from Slovenia who settled in Baraga County from 1843-1853. His name was Bishop Frederic Baraga. He came to minister to the local Ojibway (Annishnabe) people. Some people think he was a saint; others hold opposite opinions…..yet I admire the fellow for one reason alone. They called him “The Snowshoe Priest”. He supposedly walked across the Upper Peninsula on snowshoes many times. It’s reputed he walked 700 miles across this countryside in the wintertime serving his parishes. His regular circuit covered distances of more than sixty miles.
Any of you snowshoers believe that? I can barely walk a mile without panting and this fellow regularly walked 60 miles! He’s a Snowshoe Hero. At least he’s my snowshoe hero. I’m not sure he needed to “save” the Natives, but that’s another subject. His crowning glory (in these eyes) was his ability to put one foot in front of the other, snowshoe after snowshoe, for long distances.
One thing snowshoeing teaches is the necessity of paying attention. If one loses concentration it’s likely the two shoes become crossed and….the next thing you know, you’re buried backwards in a snowdrift. Another lesson: do not approach a ravine and travel straight down. Instead, snowshoe sideways. One usually does not wish to flop head-over-heels down a hill. Although it’s sometimes possible to slide down the hill as if the snowshoes were skis.
Finally, are you in the market for a pair of snowshoes? If so, you have your choice of several options. The pair at the top of the page might be referred to as “modern” aluminum snowshoes. However, for your consideration, please view the two alternative wooden varieties. I wore these wooden varieties for many years before begging a modern light pair for Christmas several years ago.
The snowshoe on the right is called a “bearpaw”. Doesn’t it look like a bear’s paw? It’s best for navigating through cedar swamps, in brush, in challenging areas. The snowshoe on the left is called (according to my husband) a “Michigan” snowshoe. I couldn’t find this verified on-line, but apparently many locals refer to it by our state’s name. In the past, long-distance snowshoers would utilize this longer fellow for lengthy cross-country hikes of….say….700 miles across the Upper Peninsula.
The "Michigan" and "bear paw" snowshoe varieties (and me)
Spruce needles
In the wintertime, in a sometimes bleak world of snow and ice, it’s often all in the details. Look closely. And when you’ve looked closely, peer in even more closely. You’re bound to be surprised. Amazing hidden details will present themselves.
Whorls in an old deer salt lick tree trunk
My camera discovered the close-up world this afternoon and I was enthralled. I would love to post at least twelve pictures, but there’s limited space on wordpress for that many photos. I think our human eye often scours the larger landscape looking for interesting subjects. We often want big thrills, big sunrises, wide vistas. We’re not patient enough to hunt for the tiny, the obscure, the miniature world.
The final picture is my favorite. The world looks so gray and black and white outside. Except for the flashes of red berries or sumac branches, the green of the pine and spruce trees, and the blues of earth and sky (truly the earth often looks blue in pictures) it often seems a rather foreboding monochromatic world. Yet, if you peer in closely, look what you can find! Greens and purples arise from the bark of the trees, for heavens sake!
So get your cameras and head outside. Move in close to everyday objects. Your camera make look blurry for a moment, but if you press down the shutter half-way and wait, the camera focuses. Snap the photo. Be prepared to “oooh” and “ahhhh” as the hidden beauty of a detailed world reveals itself.
Green moss on maple tree
Exhibit A. Shovel.
What do you need to survive during a northwoods winter? You need technology. What might that technology be? Snow removal instrument shall be Exhibit A.
A shovel is a necessity. All sorts of shovels exist. There’s the snow scoop shovel, the ergonomic shovel (please look this one up yourself), snow pushers, and wide-grip snow shovels. There’s roof rakes, designed to rake the roof clean of snow. There’s little shovels, big shovels, and then there’s really big shovels.
We call them snowplows. Most of us need some sort of snowplow to clean the driveway (unless a prior financial arrangement exists with the county). We have a 1951 Massey Harris tractor, of which you will undoubtedly later see pictures. My husband sits at the helm, painstakingly pushing snow into pre-arranged piles for most of the winter. I think he’s an expert. I was once required to sit atop the tractor and practice plowing techniques, but if anything happens to him we’re in trouble….
Today I shoveled snow. I wasn’t much in the mood to hike in the woods. In fact, if it wasn’t for this 365 day commitment, I would have DEFINITELY stayed inside. It wasn’t too cold; the temperature hovered around 25 degrees after an early-morning high of about two below zero. But my mood felt hibernational. It did not feel outdoor-ish. Nonetheless, I went outside with a sigh.
Once outside, I surveyed the landscape. Gray sky. Smelled the air; it strangely smelled like water or melting snow. Chickadees chattered nearby. In the distance, a motor hummed. It’s challenging to determine if it’s the whine of a chainsaw (another winter technology) or snowmobile. After listening intently, I identified the motor as a chainsaw. Someone was cutting wood for his or her woodpile.
Speaking of woodpiles, besides the handy chainsaw, an axe or maul often proves a necessity. You may examine Exhibit B to view our handy axe. We mostly use it for chopping kindling, although it has been used to chop logs into manageable wedges.
You place the kindling logs (usually cedar) atop the chopping block. Down comes the axe! If you’re lucky, the logs split into kindling-size shears. These go atop newspaper in the woodstove and provide the starting power to spark a good roaring fire.
Exhibit B. Axe.
As we continue this discussion of winter technology, may we discuss computers? Specifically: Internet service. We seem to live in an occasional “black hole” of Internet service. We’ll be speeding along on the worldwide web when suddenly….nothing. Yesterday afternoon provided the first real challenge to the daily posting of this blog. Internet ceased at 3:32 p.m. Fortunately I had a meeting on the other side of the bay and was able to post on a computer over there. Just wanted to set some additional perimeters to this blog commitment: if you don’t see a blog appearing on a particular calendar day, it means the Internet has disappeared from the woods. I will still write my blog, but will post at the first opportunity.
The more complicated that technology gets, the greater challenges may arise. The shovel and the axe have rarely failed during recent years. As for the Internet and computer…..shall we say that sometimes the simplest technologies prove the most faithful?
Weatherman says: -22 below windchill at 6:11 a.m. It’s the 16th day of this 365 day commitment to spend time outdoors. That means there’s 349 more to go. Should we keep counting?
Sun reportedly rose this morning at 8:32 a.m. I missed the auspicious event, having left through the front door at 6:40 a.m. Arrived at work at exactly…shall we say… 7 a.m.? From 7 a.m. until 11:15 (exactly 4.25 hours) I worked on budgets, lunch charts and quarterly reports. You can perhaps determine that Numbers are a big part of my life.
The thermometer outside the kitchen window announces it’s 8 degrees right now (1:06 p.m.) and I’ve just returned to the house after a 1.1 mile walk up to the main road. The fiercely blowing wind has abated, but it’s still coming out of the southwest at 9 mph.
Brightly colored purple finches and dapper chickadees sang in the treetops along the road, but I have no idea how many. The snow crunched underfoot, surprisingly covering the previously-slippery turf. No cars disturbed the serene beauty of the early afternoon until the mailman sped by in his Jeep at 22 mph, waving his hand.
We had eight envelopes in the mailbox, none which looked particularly intriguing. I decided to measure the snow in deference to this “numbers” blog. Out on the side yard, in the non-drifted areas, the snow averages nine to eleven inches.
The sun sets tonight at 5:17 according to the weather service. I will venture outside yet again at 6:30 p.m., this time to a meeting 9.3 miles away where I will explain numbers and finances to probably fourteen or fifteen people. They will nod and smile as if they’re interested, glad that someone else has the job of keeping track of these details. I’ve been doing this particular job for nigh on 23 years. Who knows how many more to go?
I have an interesting numbers statistic for anyone still reading. Guess how many minutes of daylight we gain at this time of year? I’m not talking dry & cold weather-service numbers. I’m talking night-time numbers only. A couple of years ago I attempted to figure out the extra minutes of light we gained in January. Every night I’d write down when it was no longer possible to see the garage. You will be pleased to know that we gain ten minutes of light in the evening every week at this time of year. This is a very vital statistic for those who suffer from Cabin Fever or Seasonal Affective Disorder. It’s vital to know that the hours of daylight are increasing. Ten more minutes of evening light per week! You may want to remember that….
As of this week, there’s between 50 and 80 people reading this blog daily. Five of them have decided to spend more time outdoors this winter. One of them says she’ll possibly attempt writing. Who knows what anyone else thinks?
We have six and a half rows left in our woodpile to make it until spring. We have 76 days until Spring Equinox. But since spring doesn’t come to this area until April or May….let’s just say….it’s a long time until spring!
***despite all this chatter about statistics and numbers, I’m pretty certain that in the larger scope of Nature and Earth and love and beauty numbers really don’t really count…..***
Who's the counting the logs left in the woodpile?
Pulling the Christmas tree into the woods
Yesterday we took the Christmas tree down. I gently fingered the ornaments, placing them in boxes wrapped in newspaper. The spruce tree smelled sharply fragrant. Together Barry and I unwound the strings and strings of lights and garland. The nostalgic post-holiday feeling began to build; the season officially ends with the dismantling of the tree.
Next we lifted the heavy trunk out of the stand and hoisted it out the door. We opened the door, stepping outside, unwieldy tree in hands. Sap stuck to our gloves. All nine feet of the green beauty flew over the deck into the snowy underworld. Then Barry dragged the spruce across the snow into the woods.
Today I followed his tracks down the hill, determined to find the final resting place of our Christmas tree. He put it in an unusual place this year, different than most years. We have several rotting tree-carcasses down another hill directly behind the house; the remains of perhaps six Christmases still visible above the snow. Most are primarily branches at odd angles; you wouldn’t recognize them as Christmas trees unless you remembered pushing them down the ravine in previous years.
I sat next to the reclining tree and thought about our holidays. We tried to do a “green” Christmas this year. We thought about the environment with each decision. We wrapped our gifts for each other in newspapers decked with recycled bows and ribbons. We bought frugally. We attempted to live lightly and simply on this precious planet. And yet….when it came to a Christmas tree….we decided to buy one.
Our daughter opted for the live-tree option. You buy a live pine or spruce, decorate it with lights and ornaments, and re-pot it in the spring. Unfortunately, this option doesn’t work well in our cold climate. The potted trees can’t survive until warm weather. In past years we’ve chopped down a tree on our property, but some of us (well, me, I admit) are tired of the Charley Brown look of lopsided and thin and straggly branches. So we bought a tree for $15 from one of the local gas stations and dragged it home in our ’49 Studebaker truck.
Today it lies in the snow, in its final resting place. I fondly said goodbye and thank you. Its branches, needles, bark and roots will eventually dissolve back into the earth. It will nourish the soil for new seedlings. New spruce and poplar and maple will grow from its decomposition. The earth so kindly takes what we use and recycles it efficiently, creating new from the old.
And there it rests....
My friend graciously pauses for a photo on our walk
Today I took a “real” walk. You’re wanting a definition of the word “real”, right? You’re wondering: aren’t all walks real? What’s she talking about now?
Yes, yes, if we choose to quibble: all walks are “real”. There’s so many different kinds of walks in the winter. There’s the kind of walk where you mosey around in the backyard, stopping to smell the spruce trees. There’s the kind of walk where you venture slowly slowly through the snow, breaking through with your big boots, pausing to consider Life between each and every step. Then there’s the woods walk where you climb up the ravines, and down the ravines, and arrive at some destination after a half hour or so. Maybe you arrive down at the lake and “oooh” and “ahhhhh” at the beauty of the lake. There’s even the road walk where you visit a place like the “Eagle Pond” (a name which you’ve created and passed on to others as if it really defines a place, as if others might know what you’re talking about).
But this definition of a “real” walk is where you walk to get exercise. You walk distances. You work up a sweat. If you’re lucky, you even have a friend who comes with you. Then you’re so busy gabbing about this and that you sometimes hardly notice the landscape. You’re instead admiring the landscape of friendship.
I went on one of those walks today. I wish you all could have come, too. Think of everything we’d discuss! Some savvy earth-folks would notice the gray landscape, the gray clouds, the gray snow. Some might even express awe over the beauty of the tree groves, the slant of snow, the 25 degree warmth. The rest of us would be discussing Other Matters of Importance, and giving maybe 20% attention to the landscape.
And most of our attention would be on the slippery nature of the road underfoot. Winter walking is not necessarily an easy pleasure. Instead, one has to gauge the ice beneath the boot. How likely are we to plummet? Dare we even attempt a swift walk? And which road provides the best traction? These are important considerations.
How many of you souls have fallen on the ice? We older folks seem to have a more challenging experience with the “thrill” of falling. Young children and even teenagers flop easily on ice, sometimes even laughing, arising cheerfully and carelessly moving on. As we age, we fall less gracefully. Down we go, and how do we rise? Tentatively. Carefully. Gauging aches and pains, looking for broken bones. We’re cautious of icy experiences. We’re seasoned fallers and we prefer upright. We’ve learned….
So my friend and I guaged the slippery portions of the road, and tried instead to walk on snow-crusted peaks. Mind you, these peaks are less than an inch high. But they provide a bit of stickiness and mitigate the possibility of a tumble. Last winter we had to cease walking altogether when the roads turned into skating rinks. This winter, so far, it’s only somewhat challenging.
We chose a road which is not much traveled. But it is traveled, as a few hardy souls live along its path. We walked from the church, around an entire country block and then back along the main road until we returned to the church, one hour later. I cheerfully suggested it was a good 3 mile hike, as my thighs and hips ached noticeably. My friend, stickler that she is, insisted it was only 2.8 miles. No matter! A good sweat had been accomplished and one felt exhilarated after the exercise. (note, I seem to be using the word “exhilarated” quite frequently to describe the post-outdoors experience.)
A good soaking bath later, a delicious whitefish dinner accompanied by garden squash (yes! still surviving down in the basement, although getting noticeably more yellow and fragile by the day), potatos and salad, and now nighttime settles in.
In the darkness one might ponder the words of Robert Frost this long winter’s eve:
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth.
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same.
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I–
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Unexpected snowy beauty
Around these parts Snow can be a religion. Do you believe? Do you believe in the power of snow to make your lives better? Do you believe in the power of snow to perk you up, transform a gray landscape or ignite mystical feelings of awe and beauty?
Or do you think Snow is really a devil in disguise, an agent of Lucifer, destined to create havoc with your driveway and roads? Does it cause shivers of horror and despair, or promises of delight and joy? What’s your take on the Religion of Snow?
All joking aside, Snow can be the greatest thing on this planet. Such beauty! Especially at Christmas. Listen to the songs croon, “Please have snow and mistletoe….” A friend from Houston recently waxed nostalgic about my tales of snow, wishing for the sight of those white flakes gently falling from the sky. (A week later, to her delight, they were falling from the sky in Houston! I didn’t ask if she changed her initial reaction after awhile…)
Sitting in the lovely house, a snowstorm brewing outside, the flakes sideways in white beauty, can be the loveliest sight on the planet. IF you’re inside. Snowmobilers, skiers, my husband the ice fisherman and snowshoe enthusiasts may disagree. They’re the enthusiast sort (shall we call them Fundamentalists?) who take Snow as the second coming, or maybe the first coming, and they’re off to play and cavort and swoosh down slopes and trails with abandoned glee. There’s no hesitation when one loves snow. Either sitting in the house with hot cocoa in hand, admiring the glories of the flakes, or playing in the great outdoors, it’s Wonderful.
Then there’s the more challenging aspects of Snow. Like in the morning, driving to work, when a logging truck comes towards you on the snowy road. And suddenly you’re in a white out. Snow swirls in front, behind and around you. And you must keep driving. You give yourself to the white-out with limited options. Either you grip the steering wheel until blisters form (a friend actually formed blisters on her hands during bad snow conditions during a trip downstate last week) or you surrender in faith. Or, better yet, you become very awake to the experience, very present to your situation while simultaneously surrendering to Something Larger (you may call it God) that sees beyond the white-out.
How many parents have sat painfully through a long winter’s evening knowing their beloved child or children were out their in a storm? How many parents have prayed fervently for the safety of teenage drivers, of middle-aged drivers? In these moments, the Snow is not something friendly and pretty and lovely. It’s a menace that has claimed the life of more than one child here in the northwoods.
So our attitude about Snow, as about many other benign things, reflects our human situations. It can be good, bad, ugly and beautiful. The eye of our perception measures it and decides.
On today’s walk in the woods around the house, it was beautiful. The memory of the logging truck white-out had dimmed and disappeared. The snowflakes of this morning have diminished, and there’s none of our kids on the local roads (they’re on planes to NYC and buses through Mexico, but that’s another story….)
So what’s your take on snow today? Is it something to love or something to hate? Or something in between?
