Snow stories. . .

I enjoy winter mornings, peering out my windows at daybreak and seeing all the fresh wildlife trails in the snow. They reveal what a busy place my yard has been all night long. A story unfolds as I visualize the deer meandering here and there, nibbling away at plants I carefully nurtured all summer long. If I examine the deer tracks more closely, I notice if they have been made by a buck or a doe--depending on imprints near the rear of the hoof. Mouse tracks are cute little prints and usually include traces of tail lines between the footprints. Sometimes, I have an "aha!" moment when their trail leads to the discovery of mouse entrances, leading either into my house or other buildings on the property. "Silly mouse," I say, as I make a mental note of where to set a baited trap. Not surprisingly, the mouse tracks are often criss-crossed with those made by the neighbor's cat! (Mine are indoor cats.) Perhaps, if I were more astute in my nature studies, I might be able to determine the timing of each. But, for now, I simply surmise that cat and mouse were on different schedules when I see no signs of a tussle. Or blood. Bird trails are a little more difficult to follow since they seem to hop about in a flurry of no particular direction. I suppose the continuous movement might be a means of self-preservation. Or, maybe it's just hard to keep those disproportionately round bodies balanced on those spindly little legs with too few toes.

When winter is over and the snow all gone, I sometimes look out at my yard in the morning and wonder what invisible night stories are left untold.

Thoughts on Winter. . .

These January days are bittersweet. I am so awed by their snowy beauty that, at times, I think my heart will burst from my attempt to absorb the peacefulness of it all! Then, there is the unsettling restlessness that accompanies the unpredictable interruptions in all that--the forever memory of broken hearts in winter. I do not immerse myself, indefinitely, in this sadness but I do think it's important to acknowledge when it occurs and even to invite it in, so to speak, and to take the time to honor (what I call) the nudge. In this case, the nudge is to take an opportunity to "be" rather than "do."

As I already mentioned, it is never a good idea to become immersed, indefinitely, and that is not always easily avoidable. It takes a certain amount of strength and practice. Or should I say practice and strength? Probably the latter, since strength is more likely to be the outcome of practice, rather than the other way around, I believe. (It would seem, therefore, that we must begin a practice, based on faith, since we can only know the result through hindsight. But that's a whole other topic.)

To be continued. . .

Backward Tracks. . .

I smiled as I traipsed through the snow, following my own footprints, going to and from the garage this morning, thinking of Thoreau. He mentioned how methodically he used this procedure to make his way between his cabin and Walden Pond to procure his winter mornings' water. Facetiously, I said to myself, as I stepped carefully into each of my own backwards tracks, "Thus, eliminating the need to fuel up the snow-blower, I suppose." As that thought developed further, I imagined what an intrusion our (then) futuristic world would have been on the solace he sought. Which is the more deprived Era? I wondered. Then? Or Now?

While I am a firm believer in the art of moving forward, lest we wither and stagnate, I think it is a shame that, in the process, we sometimes deprive our souls of the nurturing that Simplicity has to offer.

Candle wax. . .

This morning, while I was removing candle wax from its container, using boiling water, I had a flashback. One frigid winter day, early on in our marriage and while I was still under the veil of my lack-of-experience youth, I melted wax and thought it was safe to dispose of it by pouring it down our kitchen sink--because it was "liquid." At the time, I even prided myself in the fact that I "knew" to run hot water after it, to flush it through the drain. Well, I guess you know what happened! It was almost instantaneous. Bob, of course, being a jack-of-all-trades--master of many, immediately donned his plumber's hat and resolved the issue.

I learned the valuable lesson that day that sink drains and wax, even in liquid form, are not compatible. More importantly, though, I marvel now as I did then at Bob's restraint as he patiently went about his unexpected task. I hope I told him that enough. Even so, I'm sure he gleaned some satisfaction, himself, by adding it to his comedic material, under the subject, "Stupid Things my Wife has Done." (My own terminology.)

How fondly I have tucked the incident away into the corners of my memory, reserving it for days like this.