I’m looking at a scene of pure white splendor—that’s what snow does—it blankets the past in a blinding beauty. All the mud and crud: the leaves I never got around to raking, the straggling weeds I didn’t pull, the floppy detritus of hostas, tomatoes, daylillies that I never gathered and hauled to the compost bin—all lost beneath pristine glowing mounds.
It happens quickly. One morning autumn has high tailed it down south. Winter has arrived, obliterating the green shapes of my garden. The yard chores are out of my control—for six months I can forget the mower stored in the garage with the rakes and wheelbarrow. Breathing a sigh of relief, I question: Who cares anyway?
This life is not a race, nor even a job—we’re here to live. There’s important living to do, I remind myself.
There was my gorgeous friend crying on the phone yesterday afternoon — she needed an ear of comfort. Not sure I gave her much, but hey, I tried. I was there. I was not outside raking leaves.
Billowing gusts of Canadian air blow snow off the spruce bows. Handfuls of white, the size of snowballs are raining through my backyard. It’s all I see. Looks as if the earth and sky are dueling, and for now, the sky is winning. Heck, the sky team’s got endless ammo, right?
Where is all this going to lead?
All of this holiday cleaning and preparing. OK — really I wasn’t listening to my cuz ALL day. I also cleaned the fridge, taught yoga class, meditated…there is soooo MUCH TO DO. We have to make decisions, don’t we? Or else we’ll be obliterated.
I’m looking at the Mountain Ash Tree: Chinese red fruits dangle, each wearing a dunce cap of cold snow.
I’m thinking about how often I was wrong. How often I said what was so obviously the WRONG WORD, offered the WRONG advice, asked the WRONG request. Dear God, help me.
She hung up the phone, obviously unhappy with her self, her life, ME. I climbed into bed thinking of how I easy it is to contribute to another’s misery. It’s endemic to the species. The HUMAN species.
Why do I like snow? This is why — it’s fresh. It gives the earth a new face. It’s so obvious the sky has won. My efforts are so small. My disastrous conversations so minuscule in the grand scheme of seasons and earth turning, death and decay.
Besides, it’s too cold to go outside for long. Snow is a big fat arrow pointing inside. I follow that direction. I go deeper: it’s called yoga. When I practice, the past falls away. The future does not exist. I enter the arena of the heart. A place called LOVE, pure and simple. The words of the phone conversation don’t matter. The intention does. I really love my friend, even if we don’t always get it right.
Today I’m in a wintry mood, cleaning the house for the holidays and singing: Let it snow. Let it snow. Let it snow.