the challenge of winter's charism...

A change has clearly come to these old hills as each day becomes incrementally

more grey. It is not painful, mind you, just a noticeable shift from the passing chills of autumn to the steady frost and increasing darkness of the approaching winter solstice. Today we will have eight hours of sunlight. There is a dusting of snow blanketing us, too that adds its own buffer and beauty to the day. Our aging dog, Lucie, adores this time of year - she is a true snow hound - who seems to grow younger and more playful as the season ripens.

On the other-hand, I continue to make peace with Mother Nature having once dreaded and despised the inclemency: frigidity hurt my face and the relentless puddles of icy slush caused my feet to cramp and rebel. In Cleveland, where wind screams across Lake Eerie with a skull penetrating ferocity and the sun goes on sabbatical for full five months in late October, I felt trapped. Overwhelmed and oppressed. There was no escape so endurance became a battle of the will. I found beauty in the magical flurries, of course, and reveled in the silence of the city enveloped in a winter storm. God knows, I made good use of the snow days, too. But the pain - always the blistering, belligerent pain that was relentless -remained. 

Until Di cajoled me into walking by the lake-shore during a blizzard. To say I was reluctant would be generous. Simultaneous resentment and terror grabbed me by the throat as we drove from the warmth of our little house to the harshness of the lake. And then we got out of the car - and saw waves freezing in mid crash! Wind whipping the snow across the shore in small cyclones. Energy beyond comprehen-sion surging all around us as we stood in what I sensed to be the center of a sacred invitation. In that instant, the storm became sacramental - an outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace - where matter and spirit embraced. Truthfully, I could not bear it too long. The emotional intensity more than the cold became more than I could manage. With tears freezing on my face it was time to retreat to our trusty Jeep and regroup. And thaw out. And return thanks for what was still incomprehensible. 

Slowly after that I began to make peace with winter. Yes, we took a ten year hiatus in the Sonoran Desert, another enchanted land of mystery and blessing with wild weather all its own. But upon returning to New England, the pilgrimage resumed. "It is all about your gear," the wise, old natives told me. "If you have the right thermal underwear, insulated socks as well as down vests, warm knit hats and top of the line gloves you'll be just fine." They took me cross-country skiing in a snow storm. The led me on  hikes along the snowy banks of the silent Housatonic River. We wandered the woods behind our home as well as the forest on our daughter's place in hill country. Our children gave us snow shoes for Christmas. And I began to watch the sky for the changes that gave off clues about what was to come. I'm still coming to grips with all of it - the first real burst of freezing wind that slaps my face still hurts - but I am starting to see it as blessing now - not curse.