Snow Dancing

Living on a lake means we own boats.  They become high and dry landlubbers in the winter, shrouded in shrink-wrap and left outside beneath snowy heavens by the dictate of the miserly (speaking of ourselves here). 

Three of our four boats are parked in the neighbor’s empty back lot.  Instead of paying rent, we keep his boat clear of snow all winter as well as our three.   This is important, since otherwise the covers might collapse under accumulated weight. Performing this ongoing ritual of freedom (from snow) is a good barter, even though writing a check would be easier for old people with arthritis.  As it is, I’m the self-appointed pirate who swabs down the shrink-wrap instead of the deck.  This keeps my arthritic shoulders from freezing up. 

Here’s what happens. At the appointed time, the push broom and I tromp across the street together toward the fleet – my fat, winter-coat-insulated arm hooked in its skinny, naked arm.  We arrive at the frozen armada, and I ceremoniously wave the broom’s long-bristled brush back and forth, sometimes high above my head (a prickly flag) in order to reach the masts imposed on the two pontoon boats (cardboard posts supporting the shrink-wrap). Together we oh-so-carefully sweep and sweep until the plastic covers shine again – ragged poetry in motion.  It’s a gently swaying thing: The Dance of the Old Woman and the Broom. 

Tramping in the Box

Snow is falling slower this morning; a titanic snowdrift stands at least four feet tall and twenty-some feet long on our deck.  One step outside and my leg could sink out of sight into its icy depths. I’ll stay inside, thank you very much.  I’ll go to The Box.

A couple of years ago we remodeled our storage area and covered the walls with pressed wafer board instead of drywall – my husband’s ingenious plan so that anything could be nailed anywhere no matter its weight or size. The woody ambiance (appropriate for a forest ranger) was more than I expected; even the ceiling screamed wood.

When it was finished, I stood in the middle of the room. “I feel like I’m standing inside a big box,” I remarked with a small voice and a hint of female cynicism.  “A box!”

He overlooked my sarcasm and glommed onto the name. It stuck.  The Box.

Today I’m heading to The Box because it offers an alternative to walking the road that is currently buried knee-deep (a conservative estimate) in snow.  A crazy assemblage of conglomerate fishing poles and lures occupy one end of The Box, as well as other essential Man Things off-limits to me by choice.  The grandkids’ toys fill an entire shelving unit.  Assorted miscellany peeks from cubicles hanging from the ceiling: coolers, kitchen overflow items, old paint, a dehydrator. An extra frig and upright freezer stand tall against one wall.

It’s not an alluring environment.  I go here because I’m interested in the mini-trampoline.

Fifteen minutes of bouncing kangaroo-style will rejuvenate me, and I’ll be ready to face the interior of the house for yet another day.  They say (whoever they are) that “rebounding” on a mini-tramp jostles lymphatic fluid in a positive way, opening otherwise sluggish lymph channels.  Maybe that’s why I feel energized after jumping on this little patch of canvas supported with springs, or maybe it’s just a placebo effect reminiscent of pogo-stick euphoria I remember from childhood.  Either way, it will be tonic for blizzard-imposed cabin fever. 

I'm Back!

Six weeks have passed since I last posted here.  My open-ended sabbatical stretched into six weeks, but today it was time to come back! I'll post three entries written in the last couple of weeks, all sharing similar themes although from quite different circumstantial points of view.


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Journey into Honor - 11-6-14

honor – n. – 1.) high respect, esteem, respect ; 2.) privilege, pleasure, joy

I’ve been absent for four weeks.  A rite of passage into honor coincided with a long, cross-country trek (1200 miles one-way) to witness the birth of our 11^th grandchild.

I’m finally back home, and familiar turf seems somewhat altered because I am different.  Something happened as hours and minutes dripped day-by-day, building a stalactite of divine mercy feeding a stalagmite of earthly gratitude.

The dribble began when we spent our first night on the road with an inspiring friend who supports and encourages families with special needs kids: a practical, palpable example of honoring mercy and compassion.

Upon arrival at our destination, our daughter and three granddaughters (ages six and under) met us with authentic honor and raw joy – the kind that leaks fresh and clear with artesian constancy.  I felt special. Respected and appreciated by their patient, kind, consistent attention. 

Soon after we arrived, the new grandbaby’s birth magnified the continuing torrent: life is a divine gift, each second a blessing.  I was honored to witness the joy of new life, the promise of ongoing legacy.

While age-related limitations sometimes tested my tolerance levels and exaggerated vulnerability during our visit, repeated reassuring outpourings reminded me that this young family’s home could become a welcoming haven if ever I found myself living alone.  I felt grounded as the parent of a child willing to parent me in old age. “If you live long enough, you become your parent’s parent and your child’s child,” the saying goes.

Our return trip held delights that could not have been anticipated, including a rendezvous with complete strangers while walking a bridge over the Arkansas River: Boilermaker alums who happened to notice our Purdue sweatshirts.  Coupled with posh hotel rooms, good food, clear roads and interesting sites along the way, we traveled well, as if on a red carpet.

Mercy from above.  Gratitude growing, rising to meet it. Honor everywhere. Special.

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Make Ready - 11-14-14

Peril…! I had a split second to clutch an armrest as our car fishtailed on the icy hill.  Snowy clumps of slush exploded like wet grenades on the windshield, the wipers dutifully sloshing them to the side as our car with usually-trustworthy-four-wheel-drive lost control. My husband gripped the steering wheel with knobby, white knuckles. 

“Oh no….”

Thankfully, the parade of bumper-to-bumper cars in front of us continued moving.  We swerved slightly into the center turn lane, avoiding a collision.  Four long seconds later, shaking with adrenaline, we were mercifully safe.  Protected.  No crash.  No relational vehicle pile-up.

Today begins the 40-day Nativity Fast leading up to Christmas.  This is a time of preparation for the coming of the Lord, of shifting focus from ourselves to others and seeking control over whatever controls us.  It is an opportunity to turn off the automatic pilot of assumptions and entitlements, to quiet inner turbulence.  It is a time to carefully choose and decide.  It is a time to prepare for more in the context of less.

During the extended fast, a long-standing tradition in the East, participants refrain from certain foods while also turning from destructive relational diets (sneaky tid-bits like gossip, jealousy, and anger).  The intent is to prepare deeply for the celebration of our Lord’s birth.

There are plenty of slippery slopes in life.  There is one time each year to prepare the deep places where we live most authentically for the Lord of life.

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The Snow Queen's Question - 11-18-14

A deeply layered, wispy veil advances across the lake.  It sweeps the tops of waves with lacy white, brushing them with a hint of the ice they will become.  Hoarfrost covers waving grasses; sculpted snowdrifts lay bowed down like the Snow Queen’s courtiers. 

Biting wind tears through space, singing through a torrent of frozen white teeth.  The Snow Queen has come early.  It is only mid-November.

“What is mercy?  Where is is found?” The Snow Queen drills the question with gusts that carve and shape monstrous drifts at will.   

I imagine myself telling her, "Our English word, mercy, lacks fullness.  At its deepest root, mercy is not only shelter from impending doom, but also compassion, kindness, tenderness, sweetness, and endearment.  In fact, the Hebrew word for mercy means steadfast love." 

A blue jay seeks shelter near our window in a feeding station protected from the Queen’s blustery breath.  I rest in the cradle of His hand as the Snow Queen waves her cape, spilling bone-chilling beauty and a question worthy of answer.