In this world that seems so often to made up only of uncertainty, only of terror, in this world that sometimes feels that it is filled with nothing but suffering and deep sadness, we offer today another view; a brief but poignant observation from the mind of a poet on a small, even a tiny, perhaps, part of life — but yet, an important part, for it is often the tiny portions of life from which we draw the greatest nourishment.
Here, then, is confirmation that the world is, after all, a beautiful place, and life is, after all, a wondrous experience. It sometimes takes a poet to remind us.
Poets see things differently from the rest of us. And even when they are not writing in poetic form, even when they are just jotting down a note or sending a letter, their words sing with a melody unavailable to the rest of us…we just don’t hear the music. And they…they not only hear it, they see it.
Poets see music everywhere, methinks…and here is proof. Here is an essay that appeared last week in the Weekly Bulletin of the ReCreation Foundation, from the pen of m. Claire. When I read it I knew that I had to pass it along to all of you here…
OUT FOR SNOW
This morning, where I live, it snows.
Most of us have been lucky enough to encounter snow at least once in our lifetime, whether raised in an area where snowfall is plentiful or occasional, or through travel abroad, where we find ourselves painted into a soft watercolor — thrust into a world of white and dusty pinks and blue-lavenders, with ordinary cityscapes or countrysides having become suddenly mystical, and magical.
Here, in the valley I call home, it is everything hope-dusted and dream-veiled, because it occurs only a handful of times each winter. And as is always the case with snow-days, it tends to slow everything and everyone down just a bit. It affords us time for reflection, and we aren’t even sure why, much like sitting on the shoreline of an ocean and feeling drawn to become pensive, pondering both the fragility and preciousness of one’s own small life, and the immensity and magnitude of the Mystery of it.
So with snow, comes silence. Thoughts come slower to the mind. The rhythm of things downshifts, and deepens. Nature calls softly to us to awaken; to move outside of our daily confines and into that sacred and quiet world.
And maybe we do.
Maybe we set aside a laptop, put down the dishtowel and leave the laundry untouched. Maybe we say fewer things aloud, and caress our own minds with the kind of quiet the snowfall echoes. Maybe we really do bundle up – slip out the door, all by ourselves and leave a note behind that says simply, “Out for Snow – be back soon.”
And rest upon that other shoreline, somewhere in the thick silence of the woods or on the lone park bench, where we sit with head tilted back to catch a snowflake, hat or hood removed, so that the taste of almost nothing at all can fill us, and so that the sound of almost nothing at all can nourish us, and so that the color of almost nothing at all can refresh us.
This morning, where I live, it snows…
m. Claire.