Like a 5 year-old kid on Christmas Day, I awoke with an awe and wonder uncapped and ready to explode. Barely light, my siblings are still soundly sleeping. I take a peek into their bedroom to make sure. The door is wide open and I need a body count. Perhaps one of them is up to share in my joy. I counted—one, then two lumps under the down comforter. Careful not to wake them, I slowly retreat; gin martinis and a full-bodied Italian dinner the night before had set them into a deep rest. I realize I am idealizing winter. But this white blanket of finery that decorates everything it touches has touched me to the core. It’s as if I am the very same as the barren tree, held up only by grace and the roots of my years of living. But I am also the great white blanket of compassion that covers the earth, the strong, majestic peaks of the snow-covered range, the infinite stretch of possibilities on the horizon.
There is a wholesome silence here, the very same silence that is of me. We resonate together, that great vast silence and my own. It comforts me and reminds me I am whole. Feeling like sacrilege, I take gentle steps as I make my way through the snow. Fear of falling on ice makes me aware that not all winter conditions are friendly. Some of them insidiously catch us unaware. But this newly fallen snow beckons me.
The sound of timid crunching underfoot is the only sound heard as I make my way toward the pasture. The horses are lined up at the trough, looking pretty much the same as they always do. No bird makes its presence known.
Out on the open plain a single cow moos somewhere in the distance: the light is coming.
