Winter of Content

Spring will come.  It is an unavoidable  rebirth, an awakening, so I move slowly, carefully.  The winter is so nice in its own right, but we cannot tarry long without food and something warm.  We can rest and grow stronger through the season, like a tree gone to dreamland, having spent the Fall storing sugar and reaching out with roots for further sustenance.  All through, it gathers the nutrients from fertile soil, knowing the planned slumber is at hand.  Store up thoughts, perform rituals of rising early for reading and meditations, stay up late to milk the day.  Or stay up late, talking and dreaming, drinking and reading, and sleeping in very late, while we can.  Thoughts of Spring get us through the cold from time to time, but not without preparation.  More time in sleep means more visions to be interpreted, a hardy, often fruitful work.  Good, productive days - at work, at home, in bed, in our studies, outside -  enable better rest.

 I cannot coax our Chicken Sally out of her basement abode, even though I shoveled a grassy path to all her eating bowls.  We have spoiled her with her own basement room, feed her lettuce, veggie, and fruit scraps.  I must not become too content and well-fed in my own winter abode.  Time for walks and bicycle jaunts, and close, persistent reading.  What are the chances of a slumberous ride to Hygiene this winter, to visit that small stone church, the one of my dreams?  No one will come with me. They said so around the fire at the End-of-the-World party.  Easier to drink and be Merry and just not think about such coldness.  But the swirl of flames on that frozen night stilled me, the release of all that stored energy.   I must store up my own and stay alert, practice patience for the sojourns ahead.  We are meant to be alone at times. We have a wintery part that is not understood by others, but that is where the work must be done, alone.

  Good Hours

   I had for my winter evening walk -
   No one at all with whom to talk,
   But I had the cottages in a row
   Up to their shining eyes in snow.

And I thought I had the folk within:
I had the sound of  a violin;
I had a glimpse through curtain laces
Of youthful forms and youthful faces.

I had such company outward bound.
I went till there were no cottages found.
I turned and repented, but coming back
I saw no window but that was black.

Over the snow my creaking feet
Disturbed the slumbering village street
Like profanation, by your leave,
At ten o'clock of a winter eve.

                                      -Robert Frost