All is Well

I hold our soft newborn close,

Perfect and complete,

Mysteriously part of me

And yet also utterly herself,

Created in and by love

For God’s eternal pleasure.

She is of us and with us,

And yet her tiny frame radiates

A unique, cherubic beauty,

Her presence quietly proclaiming

The message of an historic mystic:

“All is well.”*

I marvel at her fresh new existence,

And consider one distant future day

When she may hold her own grandbaby

And wonder at the wholeness in her arms.

________

*”All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.” 

  - Julian of Norwich  

(“Julian’s spirituality is filled with hope and confidence in the God ‘who loves us and delights in us,’ the God who ‘will make all things well,’ the God who created us to live fully the life we have been given.” – Patrick Comerford)

To Phoebe

Life has its doors, the old woman said softly.

Some stand unlocked, slowly squeaking their invitations.

Others with bolted latches are thrown wide and gaping,

Driven by destiny’s burly winds that break restraint.

You must pass through them all, my little one.

You must, you can, and you will.

They are yours and yours alone, your life.

Her seasoned voice whispered, exposing the future.

Some slowly reveal reality, like inch-by-inch zippers.

Others explode instantaneously with possibilities.

But all doors are ultimately for your passing,

For the free roaming of your heart.

You crossed the first threshold at birth.

Now go and live, child, and meet your doors.

*To granddaughter Phoebe Annegret, born 1-9-14

The Alps

During the long hours of last night’s deep darkness, Old Man Winter became the polar vortex version of the Big Bad Wolf. I woke periodically to the drone of his huffing and puffing, a husky sound that spoke dread.

Hoarse, cold breath panted through the cracks around the windows, driven by his massive cosmic bellows filled with subzero air.  I snuggled deeper beneath the blankets, thankful for their warmth.  The alarm clock’s red numbers encouraged me: we still had electricity!

After reluctantly rising in the morning, I discovered a miniature range of snowy Swiss Alps on our deck, contoured by the Wolf.  Yesterday we had Appalachian and Rocky Mountains, but today’s peaks were steeper in comparison, definitely Alps.  I named two dominant ones, one because of relative size, and the other because of geographic proximity.  

Mount Mini-Everest

Mount Hot Tub

As the clock struck 10:00, I donned my warmest outdoor clothes and braved a quick trip outside with the camera to capture the creative beauty of the sculpted snow.  Bright sun shone from a clear blue sky, suggesting a possibility of warmth. The thermometer read -12.  Wind chill was supposedly in the -30s.

Despite the protection of insulated ski gloves, the warmest I own, my fingers ached from cold within a few minutes. I didn’t dare expose my hands to snap pictures, but pecked awkwardly at the shutter’s button with my gloved pointer finger. This significantly inhibited the photo shoot.

While walking across the yard to investigate another mountainous chain of drifts, my legs unexpectedly sank as if in quicksand - feet to groin - and my boots lodged.  A helpless Tar Baby destined to immobility, I feared my bones might freeze in a hurry, all the way to marrow! Something close to panic descended.  I was alone. What if I couldn’t get out?  Eventually I escaped, panting, with the camera still dangling from my wrist.

I pressed on to the other side of the house and the doorway leading to warmth and safety. As I shunned heavy boots, thick snow pants, and my warmest coat, gloves, and scarf – all of which had not been enough to adequately protect me - I marveled at the wild creatures toughing out the vortex in the raw.  A fragile-but-fluffed downy woodpecker hung from our suet feeder, napping intermittently with its beak tucked under its wing.  Finally it gained strength to peck a few bites of food and then flew off into the arctic wilderness.  I wanted to wish it well, and invite it back to the Alps for more respite and food tomorrow.

Testing, Testing...

(Hollow-sounding voice speaks, as if previously recorded.) 

This is a test of the emergency broadcast system.  This is only a test. 

Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep. 

This was a test of the emergency broadcast system.  In the event of an actual emergency, you will be notified of appropriate action to take to avoid damage and/or injury. 

This was only a test.

This is more accurately a test of the emergency blogcast system (broadcast and blogcast surely must be two linguistic peas in the same pod).  My blogcast is sent to you straight from the bowels of the current arctic polar vortex boasting a -30 wind chill factor. 

Howling winds, driving snow-pellets, and mile-high drifts await you immediately outside our window, so I recommend you stay home.  I ventured out for a 5-minute elephant walk through 3’ drifts to document the vortex with some pictures, and decided calamity is just waiting to happen out there.

The blogcast system will report further developments as techno-availability allows.

This was only a test.

The view outside the window looking toward the lake:

 Snow cliffs stand tall outside the sliding glass doors - note flower pots and picnic table as landmarks:

 A mini mountain range has taken over the deck:

 Birds flock to the feeders constantly - we watch from inside the frosted window:

 A hazy eyeball hangs in the sky over the lake:

Nobility and Stupidity

Today I examined a fine line between noble and stupid actions, one standing between virtue and philanthropy on one side and daring foolishness on the other. 

This intellectual scrutiny occurred while peering through a blurry windshield with ice-encrusted windshield wipers frantically smearing frozen blobs back-and-forth, back-and-forth, back-and-forth.  The snow-blanketed, country roads were empty, except for our 4-wheel-drive truck and a couple of buzzing snowmobiles. 

Had a travel advisory been issued without our knowing?  But then again, should we have needed to hear one, under the circumstances?  

The frenzied wipers throbbed their version of tachycardia without successfully clearing our vision.  Meanwhile, persistent winds whipped deranged clouds of snow in every direction. Watch out, there’s a drift! Where was the road again?  Why were we even out here, a couple of old people with waning verve? 

My figurative fine line began to wobble, causing overlap.  This was a generous errand.  This was a dangerous errand.  Both were true. Our motives were good – we’d done something to help others – and yet at our own potential peril.  This would have seemed an adventure thirty years ago.  Now it felt like torture.

As we crept toward home, muscles tensing all the way, my husband’s knuckles drawn and white on the steering wheel, I decided we would more carefully weigh pros and cons in the future and play the Old People Trump Card when necessary.  We would not be quick to automatically defer to the noble course of action if it was also stupid for us to do so.

Exploration

White craters and moguls* overlaid the lake early this morning to resemble the surface of the moon.  The sun cast shadows across the frozen expanse, intensifying visual dynamics: ripples, hills, basins, clean sweeps, sculpted cliffs. 

I had no desire to brave the elements and explore this austere, if alluring, wilderness.  However, even as I proclaimed my intentions out loud - “You won’t catch me going out there!” -  I noticed a few brave souls tromping across the ice near the opposite shoreline. 

By zooming in my camera lens, I effectively documented their Lewis and Clark expedition into the lunar-like backcountry.  Perhaps they were hardy fishermen, I reasoned.  Or maybe they’d simply pursued the occupation of exploring a pristine environment far away from bedazzling technology, leftover holiday candy, and other consuming, potentially destructive, attractions.  If that were the case, I envied their objective.  Perhaps in the process of investigating moguls and valleys they might also reconnoiter with some forgotten or ignored, but authentic, part of themselves.

*In Scandinavia’s medieval period, Norsemen named mounds and of snow “mugl,” meaning “little heap.”  From this comes our word “mogul,” used most commonly to describe a bump of snow on a ski slope.

Daily Grind

This evening I carefully wrapped and packaged artsy blown glass ornaments that have been dangling from Christmas tree branches for the past six weeks.  Hand-knit stockings spotlighting the fireplace mantle and mistletoe hanging from a conspicuous red bow over the kitchen door met the same fate. Five full boxes are now stacked and waiting to be stashed in the attic.  A stark naked living room, devoid of holiday decorations, indignantly stares back at me. It demands an explanation.

True, the corner does appear dark and bare without those cheerful tree lights.  The oak table’s scarred surface seems painfully obvious minus the distracting basket full of greens and berries flanked by two red pillar candles in star-shaped glass holders. 

Ordinary is good, I tell the room.  Most of life happens right smack dab in the middle of everydayness. I like you this way – simple, comfortable. 

Perhaps if it had the ability, it might agree.  It has witnessed many celebrations and holidays: birthday parties with twisted streamers dangling from the ceiling, 4^th of July chocolate dirt cakes featuring emerging gummy worms and edible rocks. Each year it comes alive with festive personality during the Christmas season, mirroring the goodness and gladness of the season.  But most of the time it simply facilitates day-to-day life.

Precious are the moments here, I tell it. This is where we practice the fine art of living day in and day out, come what may.  Special holidays and celebrations can be fun, cohesive, and inspiring.  But there’s something to be said for the daily grind.

The two duck decoys on the mantle, returned to their usual station after our Christmas stockings vacated it, look back knowingly.  I can see they agree.  We have a consensus.  It is good to be back to normal.