Tag Archives: winter

A Winter Blessing

I went for a walk today in the cold sun. The dirt road led me up and up; my feet slipped on treacherous patches of ice lurking invisibly under a thin layer of earth and sand. Water ran in the ditch alongside the road under winter skin, thin and glassy in the sun and opaque and layered in the shade.

The bones of the trees show clearly during this thin and aging time of year. We’ve had heavy wind in the last few days, and new, jagged wounds show where trunks and boughs snapped and splintered.

Winter Solstice is a strange time of year. Spending time among the bony, sleeping trees under the pale light of the low sun is such a contrast to the frenetic human activity accompanying the holiday season. The fields and forests sleep, letting the long dark hours and cold do what they will.

Nature has always been my best teacher, leading the way to faith, trust and renewal—the endless natural cycles of life and death. Even from my small, ant-like perspective, I find comfort in the ebb and flow of life.

I’m in need of comfort. Our woods are beginning to fall silent. Our bird feeders are full, but we see very few songbirds now, and when they do appear, they’re in small groups or single, rather than in flocks. Many insects are vanishing, which means the avian insectivore populations are diminishing fast. It seems to me we’re losing so many kinds of life—so many lives—as well as other things like trust, respect, dignity and integrity.

But I know that loss is just another word for gain. The dark is another kind of light. Good-bye is another kind of hello. All we know now is loss; our inability to imagine what might come into the empty spaces of our loss does not mean nothing will.

It’s easy to forget about the light in the darkness.

Yet I welcome the longest night of the year with my whole heart. Something in me loves the deep, cold darkness, unlit by flame or star. The darkness is like a womb, and in that womb is a glowing seed containing rebirth, transformation, and the new cycle.

As I celebrate Yule, I sit in the darkest place I can find and open myself to it. I call up the shadows in my heart and mind and embrace them without fear or resentment. My eyes are blind, but inside me something old and primal listens and watches, waiting for guidance or wisdom, waiting for the light to return.

This time of year I do the ancient women’s work of sorting one thing from another. How do we discern the difference between natural cycles of darkness and light and the frozen, unending darkness our choices and behavior can lead us into? What habits of thought and action keep us groping, blind and despairing, without a star to light our way?

What offering can we make to the dark? What can we let go of? What is ready for recycling and transformation? What do we need to do in order to greet the dawn of the new cycle less burdened?

Photo by David Monje on Unsplash

When I have rocked in the cradle of darkness long enough with these questions, I light a candle and tell that small flame of all my gratitudes, great and small. Each one is like a prayer of thanks, an offering, a guiding star in the dark night.

The candle flame is a spark of life cupped tenderly in the hands of the dark. What might grow out of it? What new paths might we tread; what terrain might we explore? What new intentions have rooted in our hearts? What can we call into birth and being within ourselves? What undiscovered guides and friends wait in the year ahead? How can we keep the flame of our courage, love, and strength alive?

What is waiting to be born in the next cycle?

A winter blessing on you, my friends. May your Yule be dark and the following dawn be bright.

For each of us
There is a desert to travel
A star to discover
And a being within ourselves to bring to life.
–From an Iranian Christmas Card

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The Storm Moon’s Wild Daughter

Photo by Linda Xu on Unsplash

The Storm Moon’s cradle is empty; her wild daughter delivered into the grim, pale days to whirl in crystal smoke under polished bone sky.

Heedless of secrets and scars, she weaves through ice-bound shadows, the Storm Moon’s wild daughter, in and out of blanched forests of memories, sorrows and fears beneath the drumming woodpecker. She puts her mouth to the crack between window and leaning wall and takes in air breathed too many times, wan and desiccated with furnace and stove and a thousand ashy ghosts, exhaling platinum spiderwebs of frost . . . silvery sharp feathers
and flowers of frost.

She is the icy scent of eucalyptus and peppermint, knifing through the sinus-clogging cold that is reluctant to loosen its thick clutches. She is the rich taste of chicken stew made in the ponderous red dutch oven, its chipped white interior stained with a hundred hearty meals.

Photo by Das Sasha on Unsplash

She is the stinging slap, the bitter bone ache, the ice needle under our fingernails that thrusts us out of apathetic futility. Love is not pointless. The grim, pale days are passing away. The hoary sun is warming again. We have tended our souls’ graveyards long enough. Our lives await an end to our grieving.

Her skirts layer the numb ground in a frozen froth of salt and snow creased with ash and sand while she cavorts and teases, naked iron and pearl, in the arms of the wind, their mingled hair crusted with silver.

Her step echoes in the sleeping roots; trees shudder at her passing caress; far below the ice, frogs stir in their cold, muddy blankets, the green sound of spring mute and patient in their chilled throats.

Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

The Storm Moon feels herself age and leaves motherhood behind, looking down as ewes labor to give birth to early lambs; as her wild daughter whirls with tempest and tumult, careless and thoughtless with youth; as we struggle with chapped hands, clumsy layers of clothing, ice-muffled pipes and feeding the insatiable maw of furnace and stove.

And this, too, shall pass. The Storm Moon shall fade into crone darkness, cradle left behind as a planter for violets. The wild maiden shall learn the secrets of womanhood, her draggled skirts unravel and sink beneath a green mist. The blanched forests shall warm into leafy suppleness, intoxicated with clear-running sap. Glaze of ice and frost shall soften and fall away, drop by drop, and frogs wake and release their insistent song of mate and spawn. Water shall once more run effortlessly through pipes, breath effortlessly through body, and the furnace hibernate, the fire go out.

In our souls’ graveyards, grey stones lean and weather, draped with moss and lichen. There is no clash of voices, no agony, no anguish. There is a bench in the sun, a bird on a branch and a puddle of bluets where the Storm Moon’s wild daughter trod when she passed by.

Photo by Nyana Stoica on Unsplash

All content on this site ©2019
Jennifer Rose
except where otherwise noted

Spinning My Wheels

Sometimes I spin my wheels.

Photo by Arun Kuchibhotla on Unsplash

I map out a week, a day, a list of directions with mileage and time apportioned to each part of the journey. I ascend the stairs to my expectant workspace, turn on a lamp, plug in a single string of red Christmas lights, light a candle and lift the laptop lid. Outside my windows, tiny snowflakes fill the air. The old-timers here say, “Little snow, big snow,” meaning small flakes indicate significant accumulation. I don’t know if this is always true, but I notice the size of the flakes. As I check the weather forecast, my e-mail and the headlines, my gaze is drawn repeatedly to the window. The hypnotic falling snow is the same color as the sky. Disordered ranks of brown cattail stalks stand ankle-deep in the sleeping pond. An infinity of branch, needle and twig is adorned with an even greater infinity of frozen white crystals, falling soundlessly and blurring the colors of stone and wood.

No snowflake ever falls in the wrong place — Zen saying.

It is then that my wheels start to spin. I have set aside this morning to write. I stare at the laptop screen, fingers on the keyboard. Nothing happens. Seeking inspiration, demanding creativity, I make notes, review notes already made, catch up on reading from favorite blogs and my current stack of books. I search for some solid traction so I can move through the day according to my tidy, efficient plan, but I find myself returning to the window, spellbound, empty of creativity or inspiration but full of wonder at the subtle beauty of the winter snow.

Photo by David Monje on Unsplash

It’s the contrast that catches my attention. My aerie is filled with books, beloved objects, the tools of my life. The warm sticky scent of a red candle fills my space. The red desk lamp I bought at Goodwill more than 10 years ago lights my worktop. My comfortable chair and footstool beckon me to sit and read. The room is warmed by the chimney that rises up through it from the wood stove below. I hear my partner talking to our old cat in his office below me; not the words, but the loving sound of his voice that is reserved just for her. He is at his work and I am at mine, cocooned in our private spaces in our slouching farmhouse with lights and heat and the rinsed breakfast dishes stacked on the counter waiting for hot water and soap. We have things to do today, errands to run, people to talk to. We have plans and intentions.

Photo by Galina N on Unsplash

But outside, just beyond the single pane of glass in the old attic windows, is a monochrome world, delicate and cold, still and peaceful. The snow falls without effort. Each flake finds a resting place on the bodies of the trees or the water or the earth. The wood and stone have no place to go and nothing to do. They dwell in the vast power of simply being. The snow settles lightly.

I think about living minimally, weeding out my clothes, the week ahead, money, the perfect Christmas gift I can never find for a loved one, and whether or not we’ll make it into town to do the errands today. I think about drafting a query letter to send out with my first manuscript, which I just finished editing for the fifth or sixth time. I think about reviewing the water rescue information I’ll need next weekend when I travel with a couple of colleagues from work to get deep-water lifeguard certified. It will be a busy week. My careful plan blocks out this morning for coming up with this week’s blog post. I will write … I will begin now … My idea is … Ready, set, go!

My wheels spin, and I look out the window at my little black car, which is wearing a white blanket, and recognize the sinking feeling of no traction. No amount of urgency or frustration makes snow, slush and mud into solid ground. No amount of bullying makes my creativity compliant. I get up. I sit down. I glance at my journal, reread a paragraph in a book, look at some poetry. I feel restless and resentful at my own recalcitrance.

Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

Outside, the snow falls, serene and inexorable as the fading light here in the last handful of days before winter solstice. I open the window and lean close against the hushed, frigid world outside it. My little candle, my lists, my inconsequential blog and my plan for this morning make no impression outside the window screen. It’s time for sleep and dreaming, time for rest. The forest knows, the earth and water know. They lie peacefully under the low sun and the long nights.

My wheels spin, making a noisy mess, throwing clods of half-formed ideas, provocative questions, lingering music of beautiful words, comments and conversations and observations, going nowhere. No traction. The morning is passing. I have not accomplished what I wanted to. I’ve neither rested with the winter snow nor produced a post. I’m torn between self-disgust, resignation and amusement. I think about heavy, cold chains; red, numb hands; wet jeans and sodden gloves; the steady clicking of hazard lights; the feeling of being late and time running out; the texture of wood ash, cat litter, sand and salt thrown onto snow and ice; and the futile laboring of spinning wheels.

The morning is gone. In half an hour we’ll try to go into town. My partner is out with the snow shovel. I shut the window, sit down and open the laptop. I type “Spinning My Wheels” and begin to write this post.

My daily crime.

Photo by Teddy Kelley on Unsplash

All content on this site ©2018
Jennifer Rose
except where otherwise noted