Signs of Life
When it’s too cold to walk, the birds still sing.
I long for their resilience and sense of purpose, so I step out onto the front porch for about eight seconds, my hand never leaving the chill metal doorknob that assures a return to warmth and purring cats. The sparrows cock a knowing eye in my direction and return to their feeding frenzy. Humbled am I, at every turn.
I don’t even know if we’ve passed the midpoint of this winter storm’s trek across the affected 40+ states these past 72 hours; time itself seems to have stopped, not making any tracks in the snow that keeps piling up higher now than the two-foot high edge of the porch. I’ll head out soon for the third round of shoveling in as many hours and be grateful that I’m no good at estimating by sight how many inches have fallen so far. The furnace is doing its job (the sump pump too, thank goodness) and the studio crooks its creative finger at me seductively. After breakfast—for the chickens and for me—I’ll be lost in the cradling arms of all-that-hasn’t-been-made-yet, sewing needles, batik fabric, and glue gun at the ready.
The land hasn’t seen a storm like this in my lifetime here. It’s stunning to witness, a tad intimidating, and strangely reassuring. How cold and white can also look so soft is winter’s privilege and paradox. She covers the bare sepia and dark brown branches of our black walnut and crack willow trees effortlessly; I look away for a second and return my gaze to see thick sleeves of snow on their slender limbs, posed and waiting for someone to sketch them. As of this sentence, no deer tracks in sight. For all I know, I’m the last person on earth. The quiet swallows me whole.
I think of the trees I usually visit on my walks back to the woods and imagine a gray and white tableau, groves of sycamores with their bark peeling in random patches up and down their long and sturdy trunks. Their peace, even in my mind’s eye, settles my heart and reminds me that movement is overrated. They stand silent and tall and teach me about the value of waiting. For anything.
I’m worried about the plumbing in this dear old farmhouse. There’s heat tape wrapped round the pipes under the kitchen sink and the water still flows, icy at first in a finger-numbing sort of way as it slowly turns hot-to-scalding, perfect for getting the last slicks of olive oil from the corners of a container that once held a hearty vegetable soup. On my trips downstairs in the middle of the night, I make a detour to the sink to lift the faucet handle for that reassuring trickle before heading back to bed where two of the kittens are waiting.
The day’s hum has been steady and attentive. Much as I enjoy getting lost in time and art supplies, this weather event has pulled my gaze up and outward through the studio windows for delicious moments of presence and wonder; watching the falling snow makes me sleepy and I’m grateful for the antique solid oak sleigh bed mere steps away from the worktable. The hours have passed easily between us, the snow and me, and I’ve deepened my respect for the power of winter. There are two juicy mandarins left in the fruit bowl on the kitchen table. That’ll get me to Wednesday at least.
As the last slivers of gray light make their blurred exit from the sky, I whisper the tiniest prayer of thanks from a soul expanded by this nearly indescribable beauty that wraps me and holds me close. Beneath it all is the pulse of a life force greater than I’ll ever understand, that somehow, in grace and infinite kindness, loves me back.
And I get to live here. Wow.
