Blessing for Wintertide

 

When your heart feels as hardened
as ice upon the pond,
may tadpoles in the mud below
remind you of hibernation's gift.

When your inner life seems drab
as winter's monochrome,
may you be surprised by the cardinal's crimson
or a bluebird's russet breast.

When your spirit's song is stilled
and you can't recall the tune,
may you join the chickadee's refrain
sung long before the thaw.

When you feel as wizened 
as the hazelnut's limp catkins,
may plumping pussy willow buds foretell
the fruitfulness to come.

When your hope is as frozen
as the ground on which you walk,
may the Light in all that is
kindle new warmth and light your way.

Offering

 

There's a cat in my lap on a cold and cloudy morning
and tea from a place I have never been,

wooden chairs, wooden floors, wooden tables 
from trees I had no hand in planting,

water from the earth pumped by a well
I did not install, 

apples I did not grow in a bowl I did not turn,
milk and cheese from cows I did not raise,

hay I did not bale 
in the barn I did not build,

birds' winter songs I did not write,
snowy tracks left by foxes I have never met.

All is gift.
Gratitude my offering back.

Foggy Unknown

The year dawned
grey and gloomy,
fields obscured by fog
swathing us
in mist, 
the perfect metaphor
for what lies ahead,
unknown.

The hedgerow stands
bleak, forlorn,
dried stalks and branches
shrouding
feathered ones
who have come to glean
from seedheads and berries,
nourishment for now,
and tomorrow.

In wild abandon
their songs pierce
the doldrums and lift
our spirits,
Carolina wrens,
harbingers of wonder
in this drab moment,
and beyond.

Hidden Gifts

Today has not been the loveliest of days.
Freezing rain, sleet and slippery slush
coat every visible surface and do not invite
the lingering contemplation of 
surrounding fields.
And yet...
How could I not notice the sheen
on the twigs,

their interlacing design
and the beauty so often obscured
by the humdrum everyday.

And by what I expect to see.

Christmas cactuses don't look like much

when they aren't blooming,
(which is most of the year.)
Just a tangle of dull green, toothed
fleshy leaves, almost not
worth a second glance.
And yet...
during this darkling season of cold,
of shorter days and longer nights 
they suddenly surprise
with buds and blooms.

Patience comes hard in these bleak days
of grays and browns.
And yet...
there lurks, 
or beckons,
the always-present invitation towards 

the goodness that was poured into
the world at its beginning. 

And into all of us
at ours.

Candles in the Darkness

So brave they seem,
each standing 
alone,
stalwart,
fending off the 
darkness
that presses in,
and the
cold.

Single flames
flickering,
moving with
the rhythm 
of those who
gather round,
needing,
longing for
the light
they cannot,
themselves, 
create.

Brave may we be,
each standing
alone
or together,
grateful,
befriending, 
welcoming the
Light
we've been given,
passing on the gift,
the warmth
bestowed
in these dark times,
and cold.

Sleeping

 

Tread softly on the sleeping ground,
where roots and rhizomes 
grow in secret,
unimpaired
beneath the frost,
where corms and pupae
snuggly rest
and wait
until the appointed
time
to wake
and stretch
upwards, 
onward,
through softening soil,
towards the
light.

Awaken gently to sleeping dreams
that linger in
your soul
as you go about 
the minutes and hours
of your days,
beckoning,
whispering 
of all that might,
at the appointed
time,
stretch
upwards, 
onward,
unbound,
towards the 
light.

 

Dawning

 

Frozen ground and frozen fingers
fumbling with latches
that secure barn doors
against the night,
sluggish opening
to the day
still shrouded
in darkness.

Frozen, nervous,
on high alert,
they assess the danger
of an unseen threat
beyond the fence line,
measuring their safety
inside a boundary
long ago erected
for their
protection.

Frozen water in the buckets,
frozen longings
in the soul,
desperate to know what
is real,
to see beyond the murkiness
of the what-if,
to know the safety
of an eternal
enfolding,
unfolding,
grace.

Yet, into the grip
of the unknown,
into the immobility
of our fear,
into our frenzied
effort to escape
the dark,
eventually,
finally,
always, 
the dawn.

Lace

 

Towering,

stripped,

exposed,

besieged by winter gales,

beleaguered partners

giving voice

to the wind.

 

Guardians,

protectors,

anchors,

branches straining upward,

lords of the woodland,

lace against 

the sky.

Molting

Every fall she appears forlorn, bedraggled, 
with feathers missing and
bare patches on her rump,
surely cold and damp without her full plumage, 
which is yet to come.
A time to endure 
and hope for renewal.

Massive skeletons against the sky, 
they stand stripped, devoid of color,
foliage shed.
Perhaps it doesn't matter whether
by the gale's force or a gentle letting go;
The outcome is the same, 
entailing a long winter's wait 
for green and new growth 
to resume.

They float on the river, 
waterfowl bound to the earth 
for a season.
Unable to fly, 
they must bide their time and watch,
vulnerable, 
eyes on the sky they
cannot inhabit until 
new flight feathers emerge.

Browned and brittle,
stalks that were supple and green 
stand drying in the cold.
Goldenrods and asters, 
yellows and purples blanched to tan, 
holding pale, fuzzy seedheads 
soon to be 
dislodged by the breezes, 
sowing promise
of life to come.

Molting, Shedding, Waiting.
Emerging, Sowing, Hoping.

Believing.
Thanks be to God.

Own Who You Are

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Some time ago, a spiritual director spoke those words to my husband..."Own who you are!"  But what to do when we don't remember very clearly, when forces beyond our control cause us to forget? These little plants don't look like much at first glance, perhaps. But for me, they were the needed gift. They were what led me back to myself this morning.

It is 39 degrees and windy outside. The landscape is still mostly brown. The March malaise is upon me, the long weariness of winter, frustration at the teasing days of warmth, only to be plunged back into freezing temperatures and muddy ground. The suffering of the globe feels particularly heavy these days...the emotional and physical turmoil of the nation, the farms and cattle and soil that have all been washed away, the loss of people's lives and livelihood, worldwide.

Suffice to say I am not at my best in March. I am tired of grackles and red-winged blackbirds dominating my feeders. I am tired of going out to look for blooming spring garden flowers that I know full well are barely up out of the ground. I long for the blue jay's squeaky, raspy cry to be replaced by the melodies of wood thrush and warblers. Sometimes all that is in me wants to cry out, "How long?"

March is the almost-but-not-quite season. It is the season I begin to forget who I am because, deep down, much of who I am involves the green and growing world and my participation in it. Never mind that there are trays of young lettuce, kale, cabbage, onions, chives, dill, and calendula growing upstairs under lights, or pots of orchids and foliage plants growing happily in my study.  My soul longs for the awakening of the earth and the plants that no one has planted. 

And that brings me to my walk out into the woods behind our house this morning and my rediscovery of the cutleaf toothwort populations carpeting the ground. Flowers that no one planted intentionally, flowers that are some of the very first to support early bees and butterflies, flowers that declare unequivocally that there is order and assurance built into the natural world, if we but wait for it. 

I know that I am connected to the One who mysteriously (and I imagine, joyously) splashed the toothwort across the wooded landscape. But sometimes I forget. This morning was a reminder that participation with the Holy sometimes means waiting and bearing with the longings of the world and, at the same time, there are moments of relief, moments that anchor us, not just in God, but in our deepest selves, as well. 

Soon the toothworts will all be blooming.

Wandering and Wondering Along the Boardwalk

At first glance, the marsh looked almost barren, particularly at low tide. Broken cattail remains dotted the mud flats and the bare branches of silky dogwood and buttonbush appeared as frozen as the ice that clung to the Potomac River shoreline.  As I braced myself against the biting wind, the bright February sunlight did little to warm me and I puzzled, yet again, at how the waterfowl swimming and feeding just beyond the ice can live, and even thrive, in the cold.

The boardwalk runs between the river and the tidal marsh, at the intersection of the two ecosystems, and offers abundant opportunity to observe the life of both.  There were not many ducks in the marsh but, on the river, several species were feeding, splashing and calling with abandon.  Furthest out were the diving ducks-the common mergansers, hooded mergansers, American widgeons and buffleheads and for the most part, each species swam alone, not mingling with others not of its own kind. Closer in to shore were the dabbling ducks, the mallards and black ducks whose bottoms we often see as they tip their heads underwater to feed. This area of the Potomac is rich in the aquatic plant life, fish and crustaceans that sustain the waterfowl who make this area their winter home and the boardwalk is an excellent vantage point from which to observe and learn more about them all.

Though I enjoyed watching the waterfowl, my attention turned to the bald eagle pair perched on a large, bare sycamore nearby. The female should be laying her first egg any day now and, though I believe I know which nest they will adopt, I won’t be sure until she is sitting still for a while.  I have come to quietly watch and wait and, perhaps, to discover.

Absorbed in the eagles, I slowly became aware of new activity around me. The dabbling ducks were on the move from the river into the marsh.  Initially, a few pairs of mallards flew over but, shortly thereafter, groups of eight and ten followed, wings whistling softly as they passed overhead and disappeared into the channels between the cattails. Within a short time, the two hundred mallards and black ducks who had been on the river had flown into the marsh and the seemingly lifeless wetland was alive with sound and splashing and what seemed like joy in returning home.  I puzzled about their mini-migration and realized that it had to do with tidal ebb and flow. I had arrived at low tide and the marsh was drained.  While I focused on the waterfowl and eagles, however, the river slowly and steadily streamed in and, at some definitive moment, the marsh held enough water for the mallards and black ducks to resume maneuvering and feeding in their favored setting. 

I was reminded, yet again, that there is always, always something to be learned when venturing outdoors, whether we live on the border of wild lands or in a suburban community. Wherever we are, we are given daily opportunities to expand our understanding of the natural world, simply by opening our eyes and minds and by paying attention. As we take them in, these opportunities grant a renewed joy in discovery and lead us into a more deeply held understanding of the land and its ways. They connect us to life beyond our own and yet, if we are willing to accept them, invite us into a life of wonder, a life that becomes our own.

"Hope Is The Thing With Feathers"

"Hope is the thing with feathers, 
That perches in the soul-
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops - at all-" 
            Emily Dickinson

I thought of her verse as I stepped outside this morning. Like so many, I have felt weighed down lately...discouraged by national foolishness, by seemingly intentional hardheartedness, by frozen ground and icy puddles in the potholes, by thinking human thoughts and, naturally enough, carrying all-too-human concerns.

But when I stepped outside my door this morning, and stopped, and listened...why,there were songs of hope all around me, just like in the poem. It has only been in the last day or two that the red-winged blackbirds have begun to sing in the stand of bamboo where they shelter from the winds and I've been hearing the tufted titmice's high, clear, spring whistles for a week or more. I think I more than imagined the faint whisper of a cardinal's spring song yesterday morning and the bluebirds and barred owls tuning up their voices for another season.

In the front yard, catkins have emerged on the hazelnut bushes and buds are enlarging on the star magnolia and the dogwood, as they do every year at this time...and as happens every year and as is about to happen this week, they will be challenged by a bout of unseasonably severe winter cold, almost as an assault on their natural rhythms and intentions. And yet, though they must endure the upcoming frigid blast, it will not defeat them. Miraculous though it may seem and mostly invisible to us, those buds and catkins will continue on in their slow, methodical development and preparation for their spring display. They will take in their stride what this week and the rest of winter offers.

The winter weeds, those brazen and opportunistic chickweed and hairy bittercress youngsters that germinate and take hold during the dark of the year, and will mount an all out barrage on our gardens in a couple of months, will wither in the coming freeze and look altogether vanquished by the low temperatures. But once the air and ground warm a bit, they will shake off the cold, laugh at our wishes for their demise, push out new growth and go on to bloom when we are paying them no attention. Such is their resilience and their place in the botanical scheme of things.

And so, once again, even as I tire of the frigid temperatures, the many-hues-of-brown landscape, the lack of obviously growing things, the tumult of our times, I am reminded of the presence of hope, the Presence that lives in all things and bids us comfort and the ability to look beyond the immediate. In the coming weeks, I will need reminders. I will watch and listen carefully for signs of the unfolding spring, subtle as they might be. I am grateful for these tangible invitations to hope and their encouragement to believe that what is today is not what will necessarily be tomorrow. Newness and freshness beckon, right now just out of reach but, just as we experience every year, are all the more joyous for the wait.

Something to Do While We're Waiting

Do you remember that old Mr. Roger's song about patience? He sang "Think of something to do while you're waiting. While you're waiting, think of something to do." That sentiment so describes my need right now. Most any gardener, or naturalist, for that matter, finds this time of year a lean one, and this year is even more difficult. We had that teasing taste of spring a week or two ago...enough to cause early fruit trees and magnolias to flower and spring peepers, wood frogs and American toads to awaken and commence their mating songs and activity...And then the bottom dropped out. The flowers froze and, this year, there will be no fruit on those trees or berries on the magnolias. What of the frogs and toads, and the eggs they laid when it was warm? Will there be new generations? Did the parents live through the sudden cold? And what became of the nectar and pollen of the red and silver maples that were flowering at the time of the freeze, first food of the season for bees?

We humans had warning of the coming freeze, and time to make preparations. In my case, that meant a mad dash to plant three new crabapple and two plum trees while I could. In time, the crabapples will form a protective thicket, with plenty of autumn and winter food for any birds that want it. Thanks to the squirrels, we may or may not ever harvest any plums for ourselves, but the leaves will be hosts to various butterfly and moth species who need that genus for reproduction.

In the midst of ice and snow, I realized it was time to start seeds for the spring that I still expect to come, at some point. I sorted through packages of cool season lettuces, kale, spinach and dill, warm season tomatoes, various peppers and lots of flowers, choosing as many as I could fit into my trays and enjoying the feel of dirt on my hands, once again. And thanks to a new propagation arrangement, I had a place to put them afterward, where I can watch those seeds grow into healthy and stocky young seedlings, ready to set out at the proper time. Like the dormant fruit trees, seeding promises hope for the future and stirs the weary imagination into remembering the colors, fragrances and tastes that are yet to come. 

The morning is sunny and the beginning of warmer days ahead and on my early walk, a multitude of robins were singing away, as if spring's temporary setback was just that...a temporary setback. I am watching downy and red-bellied woodpeckers at the suet, cardinals, red-winged blackbirds, chickadees, titmice, white-breasted nuthatches and goldfinches at the feeders and myriad blue jays, crows, white-throated sparrows and squirrels where I have scattered seed and corn, up the hill. I sometimes envy their lack of human ability to look ahead, to fret and worry over what is or is not going to happen, their ability to live fully in the moment, because they know no other way to live. 

And at the same time, I am grateful for promise and for imagination and for being able to plan ahead, after all. I am grateful to be able to sit indoors in the company of potted plants, to dream of flowers and butterflies and bees and to think about what else I can plant for them. I am glad to look forward to the woodcocks resuming their mating flights over the fields nearby, and to hope for the frogs to resume their choruses, when the time is right. While I intellectually know that winter will not last forever, this time of year I need these experiential reminders that it is so. Soon the blessings of new growth and warm breezes, of the fragrance of the earth's awakening and the buzzing of wings will, indeed, come again. May it be soon.

February's Invitation

Stillness at sunrise, winter's quiet breath,
rosy horizon and blanketing snow.
Winterberry brightening the season's grayness as

quince and magnolia buds burgeon bravely in the cold

Silence interrupted by the day's beginning...
conversational crows straggling in from their across-the-river roost.
Titmice' single note calls and a red-shouldered's cry,
woodpeckers drilling in the distance and goldfinch's

soft squeak on sycamore balls.

The world roils.
But here, sweet gums against the sky.
Peace...
Shall I not take it?

Juxtaposition

Some thoughts from a few years ago, applicable today.

The seasonal, penetrating cold has returned and, as I looked out on the yard recently, I was surprised to see two bluebirds dropping into the winterberry bushes, foraging on the berries. I see them on my walks and know that they stay the winter, living on the various berries they find and what insects they can glean from the fields but I have not seem them visit my yard in January up till now. Just behind them was a red-bellied woodpecker eating from the suet cake and peanut feeder and I was struck by the contrasts in the two bird species... one larger and one smaller, one rather drab and one vibrant blue, one eating from a man-made food source and one from what the bushes naturally provide. Both were welcomed with what sustenance my yard could offer and both stayed a while and then moved on, leaving only memories behind.

The words “In the bleak midwinter, frosty winds made moan. Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone” are from of one of my favorite Christmas carols, though the images portrayed hit closer to home during these couple of months after Christmas. The earth is hard and frozen right now and it takes all the imagination I can muster to believe that anything will ever spring from it again. And yet even as I look out on the barren landscape I am working on a program about gardening with native plants that includes numerous photographs of gardens ablaze with color. Many of the slides are of my own yard and I am again surprised at what the earth holds beneath its now-unyielding surface. Today snow is in the forecast and to those not botanically minded its coming might seem to forestall the promise of spring's re-blooming. To gardeners, however, snow is welcomed as an insulating blanket, protecting the life that lies in waiting until the time is right to emerge once again.

I sometimes think about seasons of grief and anguish in the same way. The times that seem so hopeless and forlorn can hide away in their depths the seeds of new vision and renewed purpose. Though those seeds seem deeply buried, when the time becomes right and conditions become favorable they stretch out and grow into something unexpectedly glorious if we give them a chance. I was reminded of this contrast during a recent discussion about the relationship between grief and bitterness... an inverse relationship, I should add. I have become convinced that the more genuinely and the more deeply we allow ourselves to grieve our losses and our pain, the more likely we are to come through them with hearts still soft and spirits free from bitterness. It is into such hearts that peace returns and wholeness is restored. If we allow Him, God will come to us in our grief as we admit that we have no control over events or hurts that so affect our lives. Bitterness, on the other hand, pushes God away. It is our vain attempt to deny how seriously we have been wounded and in its determination to protect us from being in such a fearful position ever again, it poisons and imprisons us.

The choice of how we respond to pain is ours alone to make. And in the choosing, unbeknownst to us, we turn towards life in its fullness or a slow erosion of the spirit. Grieving causes us to be confronted with just how vulnerable we really are in this world and yet, in a mysterious juxtaposition, it can bring the freedom to become who we have been created to be. Grieving, and its companion Forgiveness, are the only remedy to a life of bitterness and hardness of heart. Together they create the fertile soil that nourishes our soul and the beauty that lies within us, waiting to be reborn.

Rest of Winter

Grey and sullen skies portend the rest of winter
stretching out like a vista into the vast, unwelcome, unknown.
Expectations and dreams temporarily dormant,
I walk the back roads, searching for what is real.

Indoors, hope sometimes feels elusive
and I venture out, yearning for certainty in the ordinariness of life in the woods. 
Rhythms of survival, established long ago,
wind their way through the trees above
and fallen leaves below. 

Lost in thought, the chorus gradually creeps into my conciousness.
Robin voices float through the surrounding mist, along with the softer whistling of cedar waxwings
feeding on holly and bittersweet.
Chickadees and titmice flit from branch to branch,
providing the percussion section, 
while a solitary hermit thrush pauses its ground foraging,
soberly considering my presence. 

Promise is present at my feet.
Moss grows in extravagant abundance when all else seems extinguished.
and fungi and lichen are undaunted by what I consider to be harsh conditions.
Acorns, sweet gum balls and ash seeds welcome the cold
they need to germinate in the coming spring.
All is as it should be here...
No resistance, no wasted energy eulogizing what isn't,
Adapting to what is, the key to survival.
The rest of winter.