here comes - and goes - the sun...

Today the sun showed up for one of its semi-regular appearances during this season as well as the next. For much of late autumn and most of the winter, too, these hills are shrouded in shades of gray. When we lived in Tucson, the jewel of the desert Southwest that boasts at least 286 annual days of sunshine, I could not imagine returning to what I once considered New England's gloom. After all, I grew up here. I knew all too well the endlessness of our drab and ashen skies to say nothing of the bone-aching cold. Before returning more than twelve years ago, I thought of late fall and winter in this region much like Dante describes in his Purgatorio: a place where once the sun sets, pilgrims were prohibited from ascending the holy mountain in pursuit of heaven. 

And then we returned to visit here during one painfully frigid February - and my cold heart began to thaw about this place. The land was not only bleak, and it was, but the bleakness had its own beauty. Shorn of their leaves, the frozen trees could show off their nutty browns or silvers. Their absence also showed me that there was big sky here, too: without all the greenery that clogged the firmament, the little, twisty roads no longer felt claustrophobic. One old salt told me, "Apparently you've never had the right gear for living here with the proper appreciation." True enough. My feet were always frozen and damp. My hands stung and tingled. And my lungs barked relentlessly as one ugly cough after another took up residence within for weeks on end. For decades, when winter came, I stayed inside and endured.

Then it snowed on that first trip back - and the whole land took on a magical stillness. I couldn't walk in it during that visit because the soles of my cowboy boots were too slick to be safe. But I could savor it while sitting by the fire place. So I did. In time I learned to enthusiastically albeit awkwardly slip around for a spell wearing cross country skis so I could be outside. The kids bought us snow shoes that I found far more satisfying than the skis. They got us some serious winter overcoats as well. Incrementally, as I experienced a change of heart about winter, I also discovered other realities that needed to be made new. Like relearning how to drive. Or needing to trade-in the old, light weight, desert, pick-up truck for an AWD Subaru (the ubiquitous vehicle of choice in the Berkshires.) Or how to dress. Ah, the once hidden joys of layering. I now sing the blessings of fleece long johns. And let me never forget the joy of thick wool socks. Or water repellent silicone shoe spray. Or massive woolen scarfs. These days I am eager to make my annual pilgrimage to Wal-Mart to select three new pairs of gloves as well and a toque or two (for I am notorious for losing the gear that keeps my extremities warm as the season grinds on.) It took time and the wisdom of others - our annual reprieve to Tucson for a week or two in January does wonders as well - but I can now join Gary Schmidt and Susan Felch in saying:

Winter is the seat of what will come: the freeze that reminds us of the thaw, the hope pensively waiting, the moment pausing, the rhythm at its nadir but poised to begin its upward swing. "We felt the stir of hall ans street, / The pulse of life that round us beat," writes Whittier. This is winter, too: the pulse of life halting at its proper point, but still a pulse, and still a life. (Winter: A Spiritual Biography of the Season, xxii)

Now the sun has gone: in 90 minutes its visitation came and ended calling to mind the local adage that, "this too shall pass." It will. It has. And it will again. Like St. Paul Simon sang: "Slow down you move too fast, you got to make this morning last." The shift will start to feel more profound this weekend when the clocks are set back an hour and the day turns dark at 4 pm. Yet that is our part of living into a life of gravitas and gratitude: slowing down long enough to see - and savor - what is going on all around us all the time. St. Bob Dylan hit the nail on the head back in 1965 when he oozed out these lyrics to fans calling him Judas: "Something's going on all around you - and you don't know what it is - do you, Mr. Jones?" I sense the poet Rilke telling us much the same thing but without the angst when he wrote:

God speaks to each of us as he makes us,

then walks with us silently out of the night.

These are the words we dimly hear:

You, sent out beyond your recall,

go to the limits of your longing.

Embody me.

Flare up like flame

and make big shadows I can move in.

Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror.

Just keep going. No feeling is final.

Don’t let yourself lose me.

Nearby is the country they call life.

You will know it by its seriousness.

Give me your hand. 

We have now lived here longer than any other place in my life. I am still surprised.