“How much of this invisible dust must be floating in the atmosphere, and be inhaled and drunk by us at this season! Who knows but the pollen of some plants may be unwholesome to inhale, and produce the diseases of the season?” — Henry David Thoreau
For all my love of the outdoors, there are a few weeks a years that tax the soul. We’re in the thick of it now: pollen season. Specifically, the pollen of the white pine tree, which expels clouds of pollen that coats everything vomit green with a tinge of phlegm yellow.
Now I know that statement has a negative connotation, because it’s absolutely meant to, but that doesn’t mean I hold a grudge against the trees. They were here first. I think that I should go instead. Buy a boat and sail away from green clouds to experience blue water.
Trees are rooted to place. Humans are built to move. Preferably somewhere beyond the reach of Pinus Strobus.
We shall not cease from exploration And the end of all our exploring Will be to arrive where we started And know the place for the first time. — T.S. Eliot, “Little Gidding“, Four Quartets
There’s something in the air again (besides pollen). It stirs about and stirs within. The inclination to wander and discover what has not been experienced before grows. Spring is leading us to summer. Summer leads us to look beyond the familiar garden to the world beyond.
This time of year has long carried the feeling of change in the air. School years are ending. University students are wrapping up finals and fleeing for faraway places schemed up in study halls. We may never pass this way again, but we surely won’t pass those other ways until we go there. Do go there—while we are young… or young enough.
Looking back on previous adventures, we know we returned transformed. Go to Vienna or Rome or Edinburgh you cannot help but change. I listen to family and friends talk of adventures they’ve had on their own travels and see the place bubble up in their memories, energizing and provoking passion. I feel it within myself when I reflect on places I’ve been. The world is out there, ready to dance with us in our time. If we crawl out of our shell and get moving.
Just what are we going to do with this opportunity to roam? Just what are we waiting for anyway? The world is full of firsts awaiting our arrival. This season, be bold and go to meet them.
“Why let yourself be so torn and traumatized by the inanity and depravity of the epoch in which you are obliged to live? All of that can only graze your skin; it cannot reach the interior self. The outside world can take nothing from you and cannot unhinge you, as long as you do not allow yourself to be disturbed. The events of your time remain impotent before you, as long as you refuse to take part in them, and the madness of the epoch does not constitute a real danger, as long as you conserve in yourself a purity of spirit.” — Stefan Zweig, Montaigne
My deep sleep was disrupted initially by the distinctive chime of the aurora app, alerting me to a “critical” possibility of seeing the northern lights if I were to get up that very moment and go out for a peek. I lay there, initially debating the wisdom of rising, but in the end I got up to see what was up in the sky. What was up was a deep overcast blocking any possibility of seeing the northern lights.
My second round of deep sleep was interrupted by the distinctive scrape of plow on pavement. That overcast was snow moving in, and the town, in a departure from the norm, was working to stay ahead of its accumulation on the roadways. Bravo road crews. What’s gotten into you this late in the game? So much for sleep score excellence. Maybe tonight?
This morning we rise to meet the day with a fresh blanket of snow across the landscape. For those hoping for spring flowers, this is surely a setback. But we all learn that March doesn’t give a damn about our feelings and does whatever comes naturally. And it turns out that living with a few years of March weather is instructive. The world will do what the world will do, ’tis not for us to decide. All we can control is how we react to it.
These times may be maddening for those with a sense of right and wrong, but that doesn’t mean one must succumb to madness. Don’t let the bastards drag you down. Seek a purity of spirit by developing a keen awareness of beauty in the world, wisdom to be gathered, and joy to be found. Everything is all around us all at once. We may be forced to witness things we don’t like in the world, we may even lose sleep over the best intentions of others, but in the end we choose what we dwell on.
You know what they say, “March comes in like a lion, and goes out like a lamb”. And this lion is eating me alive. Snow I can live with, but the frozen layers of sleet, snow and graupel that greeted me on the driveway made me question my choices in life. New Englanders everywhere are asking themselves the classic question of March, “should I just wait for it to melt?”
The alternative to waiting for it to melt with such a mix is to get to work. Snowblowers don’t work on such stuff. One must test the ticker scraping this crap off the pavement with a sturdy shovel inch by inch. Slow and steady wins the race. Happily the ticker is still ticking.
The thing is, we choose this lifestyle. What is it about me that believes that a clean driveway is all that important this time of year? It’s going to melt in a few days anyway. Right. Alas, I live by the philosophy of a tidy ship. And I wasn’t in the Navy.
It comes down to mindful work. I cannot control what is happening in the world, I cannot control the rapid physical or mental decline of people in my life, I cannot control much of anything in the universe, but sometimes I can control how clean my driveway is. And generally it looks pretty darn good for a driveway this far north in a legit tough winter. And then Mother Nature reminded us once again who the boss really is.
These are days when it helps to have perspective. We are gaining twenty minutes of daylight every week. Things are literally getting brighter. Focus on the beauty in the world, not the maddening setbacks to all that was right and good. For this too shall pass, and soon enough the daffodils will rise to greet us once again. Yes, it’s going to melt. Sooner or later… right?
That day I saw beneath dark clouds the passing light over the water and I heard the voice of the world speak out, I knew then, as I had before life is no passing memory of what has been nor the remaining pages in a great book waiting to be read.
It is the opening of eyes long closed. It is the vision of far off things seen for the silence they hold. It is the heart after years of secret conversing speaking out loud in the clear air.
It is Moses in the desert fallen to his knees before the lit bush. It is the man throwing away his shoes as if to enter heaven and finding himself astonished, opened at last, fallen in love with solid ground. — David Whyte, The Opening of Eyes
Lately I’ve been missing the owls. I walk at night with the dog, assessing the latest accumulation of snow and ice, and I wonder where the owls have gone. They haven’t gone anywhere, I know, for they’re non-migratory. And yet I don’t see them. I don’t hear them. They’re here, but invisible. A whisper in the dark, like so many hopes and dreams. No doubt they’re watching the pup and me, quietly assessing the seekers. We aren’t food or an existential threat, so why bother with us? The fascination is entirely one-sided. The thing is, one doesn’t walk around the neighborhood with a pair of binoculars and remain on good terms with the neighbors. They already think me a curiosity for all the walking the pup and I do. And so it goes that the owls remain hidden in plain sight.
We move through life meaning well, but easily distracted by the immediate concerns of the day. We all have our owls that whisper to us, waiting to be found. But how hard are we really looking for them? What seismic shift needs to happen? What triggers action towards our grandest plans? After years of conversing, when do we finally hear those whispers loud and clear?
The answer is sometimes a jolt to the routine. Glancing up at just the right place to catch an owl staring back at us, or stumbling into the right job. But usually it’s being present with the blank page writing, deleting and writing again until just the right words come to us. Whatever that version of writing is to each of us, the ritual of staying with it until we find it is the same. Serendipity aside, we don’t find what we’re looking for if we aren’t out in the proverbial woods with our nose up and our eyes open. Discovery is nothing but being out there in it, today and every day, aware that we may just find possibility yet.
The snow began in afternoon this time around. Each storm is unique and memorable, if we observe the weather for what it is—alive and vital in its day. We get so busy complaining about the weather that we forget to simply coexist with it. The weather simply is, as we ourselves are. We share this day together and nevermore.
We walked together, the pup and me. On snowy streets quietly tracked with tires and footprints of those who had ventured out before us. This winter the plows wait a while before facing their task. Why bother? The snow will just keep coming. The price they will pay is the heaviness of their burden. Our price is a slow shuffle through the clinging accumulation. The snow clings to boots and paws, and we feel ourselves rise higher with each step. The pup uses her teeth to pluck the clumps off her paws. I’m not that dexterous and simply kick off the clumpiness.
All of this makes for a slow go in the snow. But our nightly walk is our ritual, no matter the weather. A hush falls over the street, but for the soft tread of boots and paws, moving through time as the layers accumulate. Each step is heard. Each step is felt. Flake-by-flake and step-by-step, we mark time with progress. Snow and boots and paws. Tomorrow will tell its own tale. Tonight belongs to the three of us.
I worried a lot. Will the garden grow, will the rivers flow in the right direction, will the earth turn as it was taught, and if not how shall I correct it? Was I right, was I wrong, will I be forgiven, can I do better? Will I ever be able to sing, even the sparrows can do it and I am, well, hopeless. Is my eyesight fading or am I just imagining it, am I going to get rheumatism, lockjaw, dementia? Finally, I saw that worrying had come to nothing. And gave it up. And took my old body and went out into the morning, and sang. — Mary Oliver, I Worried
I let the pup out this morning as I do every morning. She was inclined to stay out longer, and longer still. I glanced out the window and saw she was prancing in the deep snow. There were no rabbits or mice or moles scurrying away from her, just a dog doing her dance with life. And I wondered at my choosing productivity instead.
The world will go on. We learn this in time. And we learn to focus on getting things done. Our particular things. Productivity and efficiency become tools of our trade. We trust in our routines, rely on our habits. Growth becomes incremental. Sometimes surprisingly exponential.
When we are focused and engaged in a life we love, we forget to worry so much. Worry is for the less busy. It’s a sign that we aren’t using our time in the way that we’d like to. We think too much instead. Do something with the time and the worry recedes. Worry tomorrow, for we have things to we’d like to do today.
And so I’ll publish this blog. I’ll roll into my routine of being all that I can be. After all, the world is expecting me to be me today. But that dance in the snow sure looks fun. Far more fun than worrying or resolutely getting things done.
“I prefer winter and fall, when you feel the bone structure of the landscape. Something waits beneath it; the whole story doesn’t show.” — Andrew Wyeth
I would be lying if I were to write that I love winter the most. It’s true that I do love winter, and snow, and the cold dark indifference of the long night. But to say I love winter most is to ignore the very best days of spring, when the daffodils are blooming and there is hope in the air. Or the warm comfort of summer days, with the meditative delight of deadheading the flowers and plucking cherry tomatoes from stem to mouth. To say nothing of autumn, in its kaleidoscope of color and the smell of leaves returning to earth. Like children, we may love each season in their own way.
The trick is to love each day, no matter the season, for all that it brings to us. To pine for other seasons is to concede our agency over now. This is our time and place. We are right here and now because of the choices we’ve made in our life. So embrace the cold with another layer and venture out into the wild world of winter. Or simply grab a cup of steaming tea and a great book if you like. The days are what they are, and soon they’ll lead us to another season with something else to complain about or secretly love, whatever our inclination might be.
When we approach today as if it’s a beautiful day to be alive, the day comes alive for us. Stack enough days together this way and we have a great season. And these seasons do blur together after enough of them. So celebrate this one, and maybe do something with it to remember it by. Winter is here, bitingly cold and alive. Take the day in hand in all its stark beauty and dance with it.
“The snow doesn’t give a soft white damn whom it touches.” — E.E. Cummings
Have a look around this winter day. How do you feel about snow? Remember, in answering, what we mean to the snow.
One’s relationship with snow often comes down to what one is prioritizing that particular day. When we focus only on the bleak reality of our day, snow tends to be nothing but a barrier. We want to get from here to there, but for the snow. We want to park there, but for the snow. Et cetera.
Alternatively, we may find all the truth in the universe buried like treasure in snow. When we seek council with it, we hear whispers in its silence. When we get out in the world with it gliding or tromping or rolling in it, we find delight revealed in ordinary. When we grab a handful and sculpt it into something alive in our imagination, we are transformed together into artist and form. Temporary and beautiful in this dance with infinity, before one day being transformed again into something else.
Do you see? Like life itself, snow is neutral and indifferent. It’s people who transform it with meaning. So again I ask, how do you feel about snow?
Beauty is twice beautiful and goodness is doubly good when it concerns two wools socks in winter. — Pablo Neruda, Ode To A Pair Of Socks
There are two kinds of people in this world. Those who complain about the weather and those who dress for the weather we’ve been blessed to experience this day. The former tend to shelter in place. The latter tend to step out into it. I don’t judge either camp, but I’m clearly in the latter.
While snowshoeing Saturday morning, I came to a split in the trail. I went to the left that morning, breaking trail and returning with the thrill of having been out in it, doing the work of being fully-alive on a bright clear morning. But all that evening I thought about the path not taken. It remained unbroken and unexplored, and with that, I felt incomplete. Those paths not taken have a way of haunting us, don’t they?
The only thing to do was to go out again Sunday morning to see what was left for me. I silently hoped it would be unbroken still, that I might finish what I started. I saw footprints in the snowshoe tracks I’d laid and thought to myself that the opportunity was lost. But the footprints crossed the bridge and then turned back, indicating someone inclined towards common sense. Why continue on trails without the proper gear?
The thing is, I had the proper gear. And so I kept on walking to that fork in the path and turned right onto a gloriously unbroken trail, blazing a path for any who might follow. There is sheer delight to be found in the cold stillness of a pristine snowy forest, so long as you’re prepared to be out in it and have the tools to make your way back out again no matter what.
Having completed that walk, I doubled down with another, bringing the pup to the beach for a second winter walk. That proved far colder with wind chill cutting through our gear. Cold is one thing, cold wind is something else entirely. Even proper winter gear will let you know when it just isn’t enough. We simply have to listen to what nature is telling us.
The pup loves the beach and could have stayed all day but for the wind. Even clad in a winter coat of her own, she knew when we were having too much of a good thing. Sometimes the best thing to do is to step out into it. And sometimes it’s best to simply turn back with stories to tell. Two stories in fact. Twice beautiful, simply for having ventured out to meet them.
Two paths diverged. Hampstead Conservation Land.Snow on dunes. Hampton Beach State Park.
