Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Outside, where little wings fall to the earth and gather into great fluffy piles of white, I have been looking for stories.
Where have our neighbors gone? Excepting one long afternoon of communal shoveling, they've all but disappeared into the warmth of their own homes. The street is full of us, but you wouldn't know it from walking outside. Outside the buildings stand tall and silent, like colorful, watchful trees.
Inside, there are plans and projects strewn about the place, and I joyfully attend to each one, happy to give my hopes time (finally!) for expression.
It is the gift of winter's heart: if there is a chill, there is more tea; if there is hope, there is a quiet corner offered from which one can work out the details of bringing it to fruition.
Long ago, a wise lady taught me that winter's long rest is not just the cold and dark of weathered days. Rather, it's a hermitage for the soul, a fertile darkness that nourishes the seeds of understanding that were planted with those other seeds that escaped pod and tree-top-- the ones that rode autumn's crisp wind to new fields, cracks and alleyways.
I look for clues in that deep silence to know their stories, all of them: the seeds, the snow, the neighbors hidden beyond the endless walls that line our street. And in turn, that golden ember of curiosity warms my hands and propels me on, intrigued and determined, in a steady tromp through the snow.