Beloved Nepal

I remember the first time I went to that little country surrounded by giants, but still her own place.  That's what was so refreshing about Nepal, 3 1/2 years ago.  She is similar to India in many ways, yet somehow unique and so winsome in that gentle uniqueness.  And she's home to some giants of her own - the breathtaking Himalayas.  These seem to give greater shape to her than the political entities on all sides.

I saw those mountains again a few weeks ago, closer than ever.  Two of my friends and I hopped over there for a 4-day trek in foothills of the Annapurna range.  What a strange mixture of life-giving awe and paralyzing dread I experience whenever I look up to the snowy peaks.  In the end, I always surrender - I am small, a little ant in the face of such unmoving strength - and thank God for the reminder of all that is, and all that will be.

amazing view - many thanks to one of my traveling buddies for most of these photos (the good ones!)

Trekking as a non-athlete is a spiritual experience for me.  It starts rough and I need to settle into the hardness of it.

the journey begins - just above the clouds, the peak known as "fishtail"

stop looking at me like I'm crazy

At first, I can't imagine carrying that bag on my shoulders for the next four days. The weight pulls on my shoulders and lungs as I climb, and teases my precarious sense of balance as I descend.  But at some point, my perspective changes.  I can do this - me, the klutz who has, let's face it, never seriously ran more than a few miles at a time and that with great reluctance.  I am strong and healthy by design and grace, and parasites and tumors and defeatism are not what I was made for.

The air is like magic, we say to one another, observing that there's so much oxygen, we haven't yawned since we started.  I picture it penetrating to my core, pushing out the toxicity of the big city.

We fall into our simple, comfortable beds at night, asleep by 8:00 - and then strangely, all wake up around midnight, ready to go as if we'd had a full 9-hour sleep.

one of the many tea houses along the way for lodging trekkers…we stayed at this one the first night

a view from the tea house

the lovely little dining room of our second one

By day three, I feel as if I could go like this for weeks, and regret the fact that the trip is so short. It's painful at times, yes, but that's okay.  Why am I always so afraid of pain?  How would my life be different if I was free from that fear?  Pushing through the fear of what I think I can't do - that's what trekking trains a non-athlete in.

That third day we hiked at our own paces for much of morning.  In the solitude - interrupted only periodically by the friendly Israelis, Europeans and Australians sharing the trail - I sensed God reminding me who I was.  And I found myself saying those things out loud, back to Him - and to the trees and birds, I suppose.

At one point we ran into a bunch of shepherds, desperately trying to manage a flock of sheep.  Observing the unruly creatures for only a few minutes gives new insight to some imagery Jesus used in His teaching - and in that light, humbles the observer.

What a gift, being able to go to Nepal again.  Thanks to my lovely companions for arranging it all.  Though I'm still working out the kinks in my shoulders...Annapurna Circuit, here we come?

a woman's story

As Molly and I walked onto her property, through the curtain that gives privacy from the rest of the shantytown that is her neighborhood, I was wondering what we would talk about this afternoon.  She is a powerful women - made of sheer grit, and also grace that she may or may not have yet acknowledged.  It's not always clear why we visit her.  Only that if we want to do any type of service or English class in the slum, we'd better have her as our front woman.  And also, there is the rhythm of life that I cling to here - if I'm not in the lives of the people I live among, I'll start to wilt.

So we go out, late mornings or afternoons, and visit those we know, and pray for grace to connect, to allow ourselves to be tied in some meaningful way to the neighborhood.  I needed that connection, yesterday afternoon.  When the conversation led somewhat naturally into her past, I asked for the story of it.

It would be overly sentimental to say her story was completely unique…I've now heard versions of it from many different mouths.  Still it rarely fails to intrigue.  It begins with the marriage to a stranger, arranged at a young age, and a young man and wife migrating to the big city in search of something to build up and leave for their children.  They rented a room for a little while, and then when she was three months pregnant with their first daughter, they staked a claim in an undeveloped plot of jungle, built a little hut out of wood and brick and spent their nights sleeping on a mat on the floor.  He hired himself out as a day laborer, while she cut down wood to sell to restaurants to use in their ovens.

His family was not pleased that the ambitious daughter-in-law had convinced their son to leave the village.  A few months after her daughter was born - in the hut - they came, and took their son, and their granddaughter, and returned to the village, leaving the young wife and mother to come to her senses and eventually follow them back.

But she didn't.  She stayed, with her mama's milk running down her stomach and legs, and her heart breaking.  Her brothers came to check on her every now and then, help her out here and there, brought a nephew for her to nurse.  When it was clear she was not leaving, her mother-in-law brought her husband and daughter back to her.

Every year or so a new baby came - always born in the hut - until there were five.  They added to their house bit by bit, and slowly the land around them was settled by other village immigrants, becoming what it is today - a strange, stewing mix of languages and cultures, sometimes blending, sometimes exploding.

A few months before I moved to Delhi, the government came and bulldozed the slum in the middle of winter.  The residents did what they could to collect their bricks and wood and curtains, and rebuild.  As she told her story, I looked around at her newly reconstructed house, the tired bricks having been mortared together quickly while officials' heads were turned.

Several women drifted into the house.  One needed to borrow a knife, two needed advice on how to settle a boundary dispute.  Their conversation rose above my level of comprehension as they communicated in the mixture of at least 3 languages that they've developed over the years of living, talking, and fighting together.

In the end, Molly and I had to awkwardly stand up in the middle of their chatter, our presence having been forgotten.  They looked at us and as they realized that we had been left behind, we all had a good laugh.

As we walked home, I looked down and saw some mud splattered on my trousers.  I had to smile to myself.  It's always good to hear stories like those we had just heard - helps me to remember that a little bit of mud is not such a big deal.

a poignant celebration

While I walked through the main neighborhood bazaar last month, relatively early in the day, I couldn't help but think of Christmas or Thanksgiving.  That feeling I still get at age 31, the morning of special holiday - a sense of urgency and excitement that I usually overeat my way out of just a few hours later! - I could recognize it in the air.  I felt it as I edged around crowds of men and watched them walk that funny bow-legged gate we use when we're trying to discourage our sandals from kicking up street sludge onto our clean clothes.  I felt it as I stepped out of the way of bands of youth running to catch the last of the special festival prayers at a mosque that was still offering them, or perhaps to make it to a certain house in time to watch a sacrifice.

This holiday is special for me.  It was the first one I celebrated after moving here 4 years ago.  I remember walking through the market in that city on chand raat ("moon night" - the nights before festivals, whose dates are determined by the moon), following my scurrying host sister as she weaved through the alleys to make it home by dark.  And everyone was out and bustling, and to sing "Silver Bells" would have felt both strangely appropriate and absolutely hilarious.

Yes, a special holiday...but a difficult one.  The first morning after chand raat, 4 years ago, our host brothers came running into the house and beckoned us come quickly to the neighbors' place across the alley.  We scampered over to their door and up the stairs.  We gathered with a bunch of women and children around an opening in the floor that looked down to the ground level, and saw what was probably a dozen men and boys gathering around a large, black water buffalo.  There was nervous excitement...I caught a glimpse of the large knife in the hand of one of the sons of the house, a guy right around my age.  The buffalo seemed uneasy, but still fairly clueless.

And then it was time, and it all happened so fast, yet painfully slow.  My own heart pounded as the crowd of men worked together to bring the beast to the ground...not an easy feat, and it took every one of them standing there. Then there were the adrenalized, urgent prayers of blessing, the flash of the knife as it was positioned, and finally, the cut.

I've watched several sacrifices, but have never actually seen that cut. I always have to look away at the end.  It's no simple thing, the giving of one life for others.  And it's good for me to remember that.

a new language

I was remiss in assuming that I had one language to learn when I came to India.  Yes, there is the obvious - the mixture of Urdu and Hindi that is spoken here in the northern plains.  And were I to ever live in a different region, I'd need to learn what is spoken there.  But I discovered quickly there are languages other than spoken ones.  Each culture has so many languages of body and society, whole sets of movements and noises that communicate meaning.

As I was walking on the street yesterday, I realized that in the past months I've been living and driving here in Delhi, I've been learning a new language - the language of motorized vehicle horns.  Here is my attempt at creating a simple working dictionary (organized by level of amusement).

The Light Tap - This is the most subtle and most rarely used technique.  Seldom is the driver relaxed enough to employ it.  But every now and then it will be used to say something such as, "I'm here, just at your back right corner", or perhaps "I'm pulling into the parking spot you're standing in - kindly step aside".

Several Light Taps - This is a more common form of what is written above.  As a guide, it's often better to use repetition in communication.

The Long Frightened Blow - The one I myself use the most often, it's effective at communicating that what the driver of an oversized SUV near you is about to attempt could endanger your life.

The Long Angry Blow - The one I use secondly most often (after the above is ignored), it allows that aforementioned driver of oversized SUV to know that yes, I see him trying to throw his weight around and no, it's not okay.

The Long Aggressive Blow - This is employed by our SUV driver to respond that "yes, I know you don't like it, but, well, I'm doing it anyway".  This one I rarely use because, let's face it, it's rather foolish to be aggressive when you're the smallest vehicle on the road.  

Multiple Long Frightened/Angry/Aggressive Blows - The most amusing piece of all horn language, it is most often used in conjunction with actions of premeditated madness.  For example, a small, sputtering scooter driver may use this when he decides to run a stop-light to cross a huge intersection in front of trucks the size of small mountains.  A rough translation into the English language may be something like the following: "I'm betting my entire life and yours on the hope that you will hear me, see me, and stop.  For heaven's sake, save yourself - and me."

rash

I awoke early, at a time which I think would more be appropriately labeled as night than morning, to loud music and fireworks.  After a less than satisfactory night sleep, my brain in that foggy between-realities state, the thoughts came, the ones that still come after several years of living here…

Where AM I?  In what world, on which planet, would this noise, at this hour, possibly be considered okay?

I laid for a while, my body still while my mind traveled, looking for possible answers to my questions, trying to understand the words of the songs, mulling over thoughts of the day before.  I rose eventually, knowing returning to sleep was hopeless.

How rash this culture is, I think to myself later, sitting in a lit room now, trying to pray in the foreground of the cacophony.  Rash, impulsive…and as the words come into my grumpy conscience, I remember another time I used them recently.

I visited a friend a few weeks ago, an old neighbor I hadn't seen for a while.  She greeted me warmly, led me back to her bedroom, and pointed to a bassinet along the wall.  "Look who's come," she said.  I peeked into the cradle, and looked on a beautiful baby girl.

I was stunned - I had seen my friend 6 months before, how had I not known she was expecting?  After a few minutes of my gushing over her new daughter, she looked into my eyes and asked, "Can I tell you a story?"

Five years ago, my friend had almost died giving birth to her firstborn.  She had told me about this before…about how she woke up after nine days living in a dreamworld and had a son in her lap.  Now just 4 months ago, in the wake of a strange comment made by the fertility doctor she went to, the awful truth was finally revealed to her by her mother - due to a decision the family and doctor had made in the moment of crisis, she would never be able to carry a baby again.  My friend was devastated, having been hanging on the hope that had been given to her after her son's birth - that in 5 years, she'd be able to have another child.

Enter her post-adolescent, impetuous, unmarried brother.  About 3 months ago, he took a relative to the hospital for some testing, and upon arriving found an anxious crowd gathering around a tiny, freshly born baby girl.  The mother had just died in delivery, and the father, utterly stricken and already having several other children now motherless, was leaving her at the hospital.  My friend's brother thought quickly - or perhaps didn't think at all - and asked for the baby.  He signed a few papers, and took her home.

He called his big sister, who lives several hours away.  She rose from her just completed afternoon prayers to answer the phone.  On the other end of the line was her brother, asking if she wanted a daughter.  And she said yes. The next morning she and her husband and their son hopped on a train and went to welcome their new family member.

She finished telling the story, and we looked at each other with teary eyes, silent in response to the sacredness of it all.  Then she leaned over the cradle and I watched as her daughter looked up into her face, up to her life-source, her countenance all joyful cooing and light.  And one thought kept running through my mind…

How rash…how beautifully rash.

close

Mornings in India smell like bath soap, mustard oil, and floor cleaner.  Hair oil and unregulated exhausts.  Rose-flavored candy.

Life is so incredibly close here.  Walking across the neighborhood at 8:15 in the morning means brushing shoulders with herds of freshly face-washed school kids.  It means stepping onto the front stoop of a home to avoid being hit by a scooter, and glancing just inside the open door to see a woman on her haunches scrubbing her drawing room floor, the water trickling towards my feet.

All manner of things dead and decaying add their odors to the mix.  Carcasses, animal waste, garbage.  So often I have to get closer than I'd prefer.  Hop aside and bump into an old man to save my white trousers from being splashed with the fermenting residues of the street.

I'm reading a book about the New Earth; about how everything will be restored to be as it was meant to be.  Living here teaches me about the New Earth by giving me glimpses of what it will be and what it will not be.  It teaches me the value of humanity.  I can't explain it, but to sit close enough to my friends to smell them somehow teaches me that God's creation is good, and if we can't always see it now, we will.  No matter how greatly I value my introverted alone time, I miss so much when I live my life far from others.

Living here - being close - reminds me... everything is going to be so incredibly beautiful.

a complaint about a pair of sandals

I bought a new pair of sandals last night.

What a deceptive opening sentence...written so quickly, so simply.  Be not fooled, reader.  There has been nothing simple about these sandals.

I've always worn my footwear hard.  Something strange in my gate rubs away at the outer left heel.  I love to keep my shoes till they're dead.  But these days, my shoes' life expectancy is alarmingly short, as my strange gate takes me traipsing through the ankle-rolling roads and sidewalks of a South Asian mega city.  Compounding the problem is the difficulty in finding a good sturdy pair of leather sandals - the kind that are overpriced and under appreciated here, especially in regards to women's footwear.

On my way to Europe I am, in just a week or so.  I'm looking forward to walking through beautiful towns and cities and hills.  I need some dual-sports, those sandals that can go with a casual skirt on a sidewalk while still being worthy of forest trails...tricky.  So I finally broke down and ordered some online - going against a firmly held belief that jeans, swimsuits, and shoes should never be bought without first trying on.  I was desperate.  So I found some that look great and had them delivered to a friend who will meet me in that fair continent.

However I remain haunted by the real possibility that these sandals will not fit.  So on a weekly basis I frequent some market or mall or other - wasting what has now tallied up to hours - and look through all the shoes to see if any will suffice as an appropriate yet inexpensive backup.

Last night I found a pair and bought them.

Today I was walking down my neighborhood's main street and noticed that these new sandals were kicking up mud behind me, speckling my favorite pair of khakis.  It's okay, I pacified myself.  Get to soap and water quickly and the khakis will be fine.  Almost home, I stopped at the little ATM booth for cash, flexed my foot a bit while waiting, and felt the now familiar snap of a toe strap.

"You've GOT to be kidding me!"  I yelled aloud to the oblivious machine in front of me as I looked down in disbelief.

Disbelief turned to dread - there's only one way to make it home with a broken sandal, and that's to carry it.  Carry it, while walking with one foot bare through the sludge of rainy season.

Time to let go, Jess, I tell myself as I limp through down the street, the unnamable concoction that layers all pathways oozing between my toes, with people snickering behind me as I pass them - it's happened to everyone here, so everyone has a right to amusement I suppose. Yes, it is time to let go of my obsessive precaution, and trust in the course I've chosen.

And if it helps me to sleep, it may be worth it to throw a pair of plastic flip-flops into my suitcase.

Windows

If she stands in just the right spot of her small, stone and mortar cell
And looks up to the window in the opposite corner
And sidesteps carefully to the left - shuffle, shuffle...pause
She sees not only the blue sky
But also the green and brown of a tree branch's tip
Sometimes the white and gray wisp of a cloud
And every now and then
The multi-color of a small bird

She smiles this time, her patience rewarded
His feathers appear brown today, perhaps the sunlight is muted
After a long moment, he flies off, and she sighs

She leaves her spot, kept so precisely for long moments
Wanders around the smallness of her world
Loosening her back, tense from watching
Stretches her arms out in front then pulls them behind
Circles her small room, again and again and again

But in her mind, she is with him
That brown-feathered friend
Soaring above the countryside she used to dance in
She can see it all
The green hills swelling
The grass shivering in the cool breeze
The brook where she would wash off her feet
Before putting her shoes back on

Now she flies with him to a faraway land
He becomes an eagle
Mountains are higher, but together they can summit them
Breeze colder, but still their feathers shield sufficiently
Trees even taller, grass even greener
Great waterfalls leap off of cliffs
With enough power to drown injustice

Further north they fly
To the place where the snows reign
Where mankind understand more the limits of their power
Respect the land, submit to the storm, or perish
The Almighty sees all

They fly to the top of the world
And look upon it
Sad, lovely, yearning place
It waits
It knows
And on gazing, she remembers

On days of grief, she felt the window was a taunt
On most days, it was a gift
But on the really good days, she wondered who needs windows at all
When your spirit can show you anything you need to see

Today's Unexpected

Arrogantly aloof, I accelerate
Confident I know the way, what's around the turn
I've done this before
I daydream, or obsessively scheme
Instead of paying attention
There is no need for it

Something calls me to come to
I am not where I thought I would be
Don't know where I went wrong
Don't know where to turn around
I wish I wouldn't have disengaged
Tyrant Time sneers, ready to bite
And I start to bare my leg, defeated so quickly

But there is Grace, I remember
Always
This I'm learning
So I request, without right or merit
Help me return
And speak to my soul
For goodness' sake, be calm

The inner compass perks up, as if after the first sip of morning brew
As if, by a gentle hand, pulled to its feet from ignored isolation
I spot a sign, something familiar

Turn there

Then here

And now...

Welcome to Grace's overflow, a gift come early this day
Tree branches, hundreds of them swaying in the morning breeze
Yellowed leaves fluttering, dancing, whispering
All around me falling, whirling
Shielding me from the shame of losing myself yet again

"Hush there, hush", speaks the broom, soothing the sidewalks
Collecting the falling treasures
Wiping away dusty frustration
While a warm wind evaporates the perspiration from my eyebrows
While sunlight sprinkles itself onto the pavement in playful patterns
Onto the road, long and inviting
     laid out before me, only for me at this moment

I stop and ask a watchman, to be sure, and sure enough

     My Path is just ahead, just a little further

Grace
Not only to return
But also to give moments beautiful through which to do so
As I slowly move down what must be the most enchanting street in town

A true story this is, having just happened this morning
And happening so very often
     when I find myself where I didn't expect to
     or am found where I didn't intend to be

Heat

My pores are confronted with the intensity

They open, and into the fibers of my being It comes

     All at once, as I step from climate control to out of control

     And then moment by moment, more slowly, more thoroughly

My body temperature, my emotional temperature both rise

     As I wind my way down the hill, out from the shelter of trees,

     Onto the black, which takes It and throws It back at me

I come to a stand still, and without the wind to disguise, It grows in size

    Becomes larger than life itself, consuming, violating all boundaries

    It joins in thick cohort with fumes, engines, thousands of bodies

I put up my face shield, take a deep breath and for a moment, wonder if I am overcome


But no...not now, I'm not

It comes into my lungs and finds something working, something living there

It comes in and settles...and can do nothing else

Because in all Its oppression, It really is only a vapor

     These lungs were meant for breathing

     These fibers for toughing It out

And so, though It taunts, eventually It can do nothing but yawn,

     A ferocious lion sleeping lazily in the afternoon.

Family Stories Collection #1

Grandpa was bi-vocational for much of his life, and to this day, tells some of the best stories that farming and truck-driving could possibly have to offer. Or perhaps it's the way his blue eyes sparkle with tears of mirth while his shoulders shake silently that makes simple every day encounters with animals and people from all corners of the globe so incredibly engaging.  His voice gets thick, and if you listen without watching, you may think he was about to cry.  And I have seen him cry.  But not when he's telling a story - he tells stories for the sake of enjoyment, and they always end in that hoarse voice, barely able to squeeze the words around the bubble of laughter coming up from the core of his body.

One of the benefits about being the first granddaughter is that among all the stories of pigs refusing to cross imaginary lines and little Italian boys proclaiming the wonders of their mothers' sauces, there are also several about my own life that circulate in our family lore.

Before the days of cell phones, Grandpa would stop at diners while out on the truck, usually on the way to New York City, to grab a bite, and call Grandma from the pay phone.  He did this very thing one day - January 30, 1982 - and this time he was met with some exciting news: his daughter had given birth to his first grandchild - a girl.  He found out her name - Jessica - and after a while hung up the phone and went to sit down at the bar for some lunch.

Eager to share his news with someone, he told the waitress who was pouring his coffee, "I've just become a grandfather - I have a new granddaughter!"

"That's wonderful!" the waitress replied, undoubtedly used to many road travelers looking for someone to tell their stories to.  "What's her name?"

At this point, Grandpa found himself confused...what was her name?  He had just heard it...

He looked at the waitress, and falteringly said, "Um...Jessifer."

"Oh...", the waitress said, taken off guard.  "That's ... that's nice.  Congratulations."

To this day, 31 years later, the name lives on in my family.  I'm referred to as "Jessifer" as often as I am anything else.  And it's precious to me, that silly name.  It's a relic from another time, when communication was not so instant, and life contained a few more surprises.  He walked into the diner that day, not knowing that this call would be special.  And when the time came to tell my name, he couldn't quickly text message to ensure that he got it just right.

But more importantly, the name Jessifer is a token of my grandfather, one that I'll always carry with me.  I love to picture him in his late 40's, sitting at the diner, engaging with people in his relaxed way, his blue eyes squinting as he looks into space trying to recall my name, and the tone of his voice as he tries to say it.  

Crossroad

She jogged past me this morning, and in the moment when my eyes fell on her I both noticed her for the first time, and realized I had seen her nearly every morning I came to the park for a walk.  She was cute; small in stature, but not slight - "healthy", as the locals say, referring to that weight which is neither too much nor too little.  But what struck me, my experience of India being very mono-cultural up until several weeks ago, was her ethnicity.  The shape of her face and eyes indicated that she may be coming from a northeastern state, or perhaps Nepal.  I felt a squeeze of pain in my heart...how typically foolish of me, to assume I know someone's story, just by looking at her.  Perhaps her life here in Delhi was great.  But according to stories and statistics, it was also possible that she was living vulnerable to prejudice.

Regardless, it probably was safe to assume that at some point in her life, maybe not so long ago, she had reached the crossroad that so many of us all over the earth do.  The road ahead continued on much as her life had thus far.  But to the left and to the right were other roads, leading away from places of familiarity, of heritage and family, to big cities of anonymity, new experiences, and - the biggest and maybe only draw for many - work.

Into the overflowing cauldron of destiny and disaster that is the capital city of the largest democracy in the world, thousands of people jump every week.  Nearly every emigrating soul coming is someone who felt they really didn't have a choice at the crossroad.  Men and boys, whole families, sometimes women alone and at risk, pour across the city limits, leaving behind villages with dead economies, and farms that just can't quite sustain.

Where is the City that will embrace, inspire, build up?  Where is the City that will receive with gratitude each perspective, each gift that is brought, and transform it all into a Beauty and Goodness that will never stop growing?  Instead, the cities of the earth so often chew up these desperate and displaced ones and spit out their bones.

I don't know why this woman awoke all this raw emotion, nearing to a hopelessness, this morning.  Especially because when she looked at me, with those eyes of an outsider, I didn't see all the anger, the angst that was boiling to the surface inside of me.  I saw gentleness and a mirrored interest in this fellow troubadour.  And she smiled at me.  She jogged past me, panting lightly in the cool morning air, and smiled.  

Duplicity

"Just be one", I hear as I sit in the stillness of a pre-dawn moment on an Asian roof-top.  The Breeze seems to bring the Message, along with sparrows and pigeons, and cools my coffee to the perfect drinking temperature.  "Just be one.  Just be you."

I take a sip...coffee from my hometown cafe.  I also am a hometown girl, this one sitting half a world away from home.  How often I've wished i was someone else...someone with athletic ability, a degree in Saving The World, and a personality that can bowl over any obstacle.  But I am not that one...I'm this one.  I'm not that one either, who can speak and woo, who can boldly declare without shadows.  I'm the one who while saying one thing is compelled to suggest the other as well, who can't help but try to hold it all in balance, in maddening tension.  I'm the one realizing over time that the humility I thought was mine is as far away as my hometown, and maybe further.

These past years I've said many times - often with disappointment - "No, I'm not that one".  But what a joy it's been to discover that still I'm Loved. What greater freedom is there available for a human than to say, "I am made to be one...this one." Freedom to love myself, though perfection is a distant point on an abstract horizon.  Freedom to love others, though they be what I used to wish I was.  Freedom to say, "I need you."

No longer will I willingly walk into the changing room of duplicity - that small windowless chamber of costumes, scripted lines, retroflex daydreams.

The air is so stale in there, and so rich and sweet out in the forest - that wild place that is my life, if I let myself get lost in it.

Circles

A daughter of Pennsylvania, I delight in the circular patterns that guide the weather.  I observe them, find solidarity with them.  Rhythms, ancient paths of movement, circles that offer the hope of change with the comfort of a promised returning.

I look at the trees, starkly beautiful, naked of leaf and fruit - I gaze only for a few moments, and then it seems right to turn away, in respect of their bareness.  Humbled they are, but without shame, for this is how He intended it.  Death that doesn't destroy, but strengthens.  Coldness that doesn't kill, only stills.  The life-sap slows, bringing the energy of creation to rest.  The trees once robed in color, now stand quietly but confidently in their nothingness, knowing that while they don't produce, don't dazzle or delight, still they stand.  And they wait.

The renewal doesn't come in a day...who knows exactly when spring begins?  We say it's when the clock strikes midnight sometime in late March, but much has already happened by that point.  So much that can't be seen, in the deep places where renewal always begins.  Has anyone ever been fortune's darling and witnessed the very first green nose poke it's way through the bark?  Surely all of heaven celebrates for each one, harbinger bud of creativity, coming awake from the long winter sleep.  The trees have rested well, and seem to gain energy as they spend it.

For several weeks, it would seem as if they've reached the top of the circular cycle, and are rounding the uppermost point, and with ease and speed everything beautiful and exciting happens in an exhilarating rush.  Leaves sprout full and lush and green, screaming vitality.  Flowers burst forth in exultation like cymbals crashing, "NOW!  NOW!  NOW!"  Initiative reaches its full potential and the world is touched with goodness and beauty.  And for a while the life-sap flows continually, throbbing in the veins and it's a time to simply enjoy.

But what of new things?  What could come after this climax, this abundance already excessive?   The tree knows the sign of the times, both from without and within.  The air chills, and the sun begins to shyly step out early and show up late.  The throbbing within begins to feel more like pain than like life, and exhausted from the exuberance of the past months, the sap slows.  The tree senses the oncoming bliss of relief, and knowing the promise of life restored at a later time, she lets go.

Ancient paths of movement that these trees submit to, knowing and trusting in the wisdom of it all - we too move along these paths, learning along the way some of the most beautiful things about the round completeness of our Guide.

Snow

I walked along the vacant, mountain road, through the snow embraced forest, inhaling deeply the cold, healing air.  I let it fill my lungs, pushing out the dust, the dirt.  I could almost feel it absorbing into my muscles and organs, setting right my systems and rhythms.  I stretched out my legs a little further, and inhaled just a bit deeper.

And then I stopped, to hear it - Silence, the food of my spirit.

Even my thoughts are beckoned to pause, and wait, just wait.  Who knows when a Voice may come, so just wait.

Embrace the snow, as it ushers in the difficult blessings.  Accept the slowing down, because if you go too fast you may lose your footing.  Welcome the coldness, for there are some diseases that are only frozen away.  Make peace with the silence, the lonely healer, brutal and beautiful as it consumes.