I hated missing school. However, I've grown to appreciate snow days. There is a quietness that only happens when the world around me is thick in snow.
It brings on the muse. The true desire to write... to open the gallery and tent flaps to listen and snuggle into the absence of chatter
Small birds scatter across the snow under the ancient walnut tree outside my office window. I can't imagine there is anything there for them to treasure. But they
are looking anyway. The wind whipping small tornadoes of glistening fluff into a pas de deax along the ridges of drifts make not one sound. No howling. No blustering.
Simple elegance.
Do the winds bluster where you are? They say that birds won’t sing in winter and regardless of season they will not sing in the wind. . Who are 'they' anyway?
I suppose 'they' have not been in the forest in February. Is it because the birds have no song or because they can not find the words to express Winter?
There are seasons when it’s hard to find words. Because no matter what anyone says, words are not cheap. They do not always tumble lithely off the fingers
and onto the QWERTY. Words, if they are real words, must incarnate. Take on skin. Take on shape... just as the dancers on the drifts. To lay bare ones words
for others to read does not come without great risk and vulnerability. And, my friends, that comes at a price. Perhaps about the cost of a sliver of soul. A gasp
of sweet breath... "Send" is quite a risk. It needs to be Larger and in neon, alarm red.
"Yes" takes on an entirely different definition in light of nail-pierced hands.
Uttering even one word, a singular yes, to a spouse, a child, a neighbor, lays down a bit of our beautiful, courageous, vulnerable self.
The whisper of just one sorry can seem exorbitant — but it’s the most authentic way to extend grace... a smidgen of healing balm to each soul-- the giver's and
the receiver's.
There's a deep frost in the corners of the window panes here today. The tiny glint of opaline light just distracted me from the words. I wonder where the
tiny sparrows of last week huddle as the blizzard visits. We can take solace in this — G-d has never failed yet to send Spring. And our words will make a way through
the silence. And the supposedly silent small birds will once again herald joy!
And then there are the Chickadees! They sing in the snow.
Clustered there just outside my window. Singing for me to hurry to the feeders! Staring me into action. Singing into the wind, believing... trusting... calling... knowing... because really, is there a wind that can ever carry a song off course?
The words we speak, the words we conjure, the words we write, the words we serve to our own little world, they are meant to only be echoes of the Word.
Meant to make Him smile. Meant to make a way back to their source, the Word G-d, who can’t stop writing His heart onto ours.
What shapes the way we speak, the way we think, the way we compile, conjure, dream, imagine, the way we apply our words, need only be the Word Himself. Glory!
And so I thought, "What if all our words were just bird-song free, jubilant expressions of love sung for G-d alone?" Even without the promise of Spring.
