Silence and darkness...

Today is a quiet, cold and increasingly grey day in the Berkshires: a portent of things to come as winter matures, yes? We were going to hike Mt. Greylock - the highest point in Massachusetts -but now we're headed to a more hospitable place: bookstores and art museums. As my blogging friend from Thunder Bay, Black Pete, has noted, winter has its own spiritual and physical rhythm that must be entered and embraced. Made me think of this poem by Louise Gluck minus that part about summer's deep sweetness:

Time to rest now; you have had
enough excitement for the time being.

Twilight, then early evening. Fireflies
in the room, flickering here and there, here and there,
and summer's deep sweetness filling the open window.

Don't think of these things anymore.
Listen to my breathing, your own breathing
like the fireflies, each small breath
a flare in which the world appears.

I've sun to you long enough in the summer night.
I'll win you over in the end; the world can't give you
this sustained vision.

You must be taught to love me. Human beings must be
taught to love
silence and darkness.

This tune by Rosanne Cash - with her late poppa Johnny - feels like this season to me: it is a unique and inward time, yes? A season for reflecting and taking stock of what is real and what is dross, what time is left and what amends still must be made. In that spirit, we went to a Mason Jennings show last Sunday night: it was freakin' brilliant! He is showcasing his new CD, "Blood of Man" which has a darker and harder edge to it... like this knock out song: "Ain't No Friend of Mine." (As it was rocking out, Dianne whispered to me: "Damn... this has got Good Friday all OVER it!")

Later this evening is the closing "Third Thursday" in town - a blast of jazz and street performers - that we'll check out (with the aid of long johns and fleece vests) to see what other blessings the day has in store for us. As the planet shifts - and winter ripens - and the rhythm of life takes on a new beat, I sense different spiritual questions beginning to rise to the surface. Louise Gluck captures this insight like this in "Matins."

You want to know how I spend my time?

I walk the front lawn, pretending

to be weeding. You ought to know

I'm never weeding, on my knees, pulling

clumps of clover from the flower beds: in fact

I'm looking for courage, for some evidence

my life will change, though

it takes forever, checking

each clump for the symbolic

leaf, and soon the summer is ending, already

the leaves turning, always the sick trees

going first, the dying turning

brilliant yellow, while a few dark birds perform

their curfew of music. You want to see my hands?

As empty now as at the first note.

Or was the point always

to continue without a sign?