Come walk with me in the peak Autumn beauty of the Northwoods. To say that I love this time of year is an understatement. Most everyone can appreciate the colorful falling leaves---it reveals the 'true self' of a tree when its leaves are no longer producing chlorophyll. Their true colors are revealed, and there is something simple … [Read More...]
Walking With Those Who Came Before Us
My Grandma Anna arrived in America at Ellis Island on July 9, 1907. She was four years old and had traveled with her mother from Osterild, Denmark. She remembered the boat trip being long and how the blaring foghorn scared her. What a journey for a child and her young mother!
Seventeen years later my Grandma, her whole family, and all their possessions traveled from Mott, North Dakota to Arlington, South Dakota by covered wagon pulled by a pair of horses. They crossed the Missouri River at Bismarck, headed east to Jamestown, then south to Arlington. They walked 450 miles back to their extended family in South Dakota.*
Every morning I walk with Tamba—at the most, we walk a mile. When the temperatures are well below zero, we don’t get that far. One morning after a fresh snow, I realized that we were walking with the animals that had come before us! The prints were fresh in the fresh snow, and I wondered how many minutes ago they had walked this very same path. The deer will walk down the road, the fox crosses the road from the quarry land, circles through the neighbor’s woods, and often treks through our yard.
Deer tracks and mine
Fox tracks
The deer and turkey have a path under a pushed up section of fence that gains them access to the protected quarry land.
Turkey track
There’s also an opossum, a skunk, raccoons, squirrels, rabbits, cats, and dogs who travel down and across the road we walk along.
Skunk track
Rabbit trail
Occasionally I see the deer or turkeys or fox, but mostly they walk their journeys without my awareness. I follow their paths, and they follow mine. I cross their paths, and they cross mine. Unknowing. But fresh winter snow illuminates the animals’ paths, and I can see us walking together. It makes me feel connected to them in some primitive way. Their quest for food. Their pathway to shelter. Their trek to safety.
Part of the DNA I carry came across the ocean on a ship to Ellis Island and walked across the Dakotas in the hot July weather. *Thanks to my aunt Faye and my dear cousin Marvel, may they rest in peace, we have stories and genealogy from the generations who walked before us. With that history of our family, we are aware of how we follow their paths and how they cross our paths. I am connected to my Grandma and to those who came before her. With the history of inspiring words and realistic pictures, we celebrated Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. last Monday. With that history and celebration, we are reminded of the quest for freedom, of the pathway to equality, and of the journey to a better life. Our pathways are illuminated, and I can see us walking together.
Denial in the Cold Night
“Denying the truth doesn’t change the facts.”
It began with some serious banging of the pipes—enough to wake me up in the middle of the night. So I run downstairs to the boiler furnace and see that the water pressure is low. I open the valve to let more water into the system, hoping that will displace the air that is causing the commotion. The next morning I check the boiler again—it needs more water. Not a good sign, but I add more water and scour the floor and ceiling for any evidence of leaking. It’s probably just evaporation with all the usage in this cold weather, I reason. It is Thursday before the long Christmas weekend, Emily is home, more company is coming, and temperatures are cold and headed to below zero readings for the weekend. So…the furnace can’t be broken, right? My denial lasts through most of the day, but the hourly checks of decreasing water pressure and noisy pipes finally force my hand to call the repairman. The evidence is right before my eyes—a water pressure gauge—and ears—clanging, air-filled pipes. Not the way I expected to head into Christmas and not what I wanted to deal with when family was here for the holidays.
Our temperatures have been on a roller-coaster ride—a very unusual winter so far. After a frigid Christmas and New Year’s, our daytime temperatures soared above freezing for four days this past week. The little snow we had started to melt—an early January thaw in the normally coldest time of year.
This is our third winter of a snow drought—we’ve only had inches of snow when usually the grass, plants, and garden rocks are completely covered.
New Year’s Day the high and low temperature was 1°|-18°; on January 9th, it was 41°|28°.
The next day the temperature dropped from a high of 40° to a low of -10°—fifty degrees from high to low in a little over 24 hours! The temperature pendulum is swinging wide and erratic. The melting snow water on the birch branches flash froze into ice droplets.
A half an inch of snow floated down, when days earlier the forecast had been for 8-12 inches.
Record low and high temperatures have been set in every decade of the last 120 years of record keeping, so there’s really nothing to be concerned about, right?
The furnace repairman assessed the situation and did not deliver good news. We may have a leak somewhere in the basement in-floor tubing. We could change out parts for hundreds of dollars that could “force” the leak to show up—maybe. Not something one would want to do in the middle of the holidays, it seems, or in the middle of winter. So we changed the game plan a bit and tried to mitigate the basement heating. Not a big problem in the whole scheme of things. We didn’t lose our home in a wildfire or mudslide like thousands of people did in California and other western states. Our home was not extensively damaged or destroyed in a hurricane or flood like what happened to tens of thousands of people in Texas, Florida, and the Caribbean islands. We didn’t start our new year having to deal with a Bomb Cyclone like the northeast did. The evidence of extreme and erratic weather due to climate change is right before our eyes, in the news every day, and in the extensive, credible research of career climate scientists.
Denial is a very human response, even as we are presented with evidence that is hard to refute. I did not expect furnace problems, and even more telling, it was not what I wanted to deal with at that time. William Shakespeare wrote, “The eye sees all, but the mind shows us what we want to see.” Our creative, sometimes desperate minds easily explain away the evidence that our eyes are seeing. Sometimes, as in life-altering situations like accidents or death, denial can be a blessing. Grief expert Elisabeth Kübler-Ross explains that denial “is nature’s way of letting in only as much as we can handle.” It “helps us to pace our feelings of grief.” But often denial is a mechanism of willful doubt because we do not want our beliefs challenged in any way. What if we would allow ourselves to become data collectors? Most of us do allow this when trying to figure out what washing machine to buy or what’s the best computer for our needs—we rarely buy appliances according to party line. The same due diligence should be used on all issues—research, evidence, data, personal experiences and reviews from thousands of people who intimately know the issue. We need to ask the tough questions and be willing to see and hear the answers. Sometimes it takes some serious banging of the pipes to wake us up and take action.
The Old and New Seasons of Our Lives
“Live in each season as it passes; breathe the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit, and resign yourself to the influence of the earth.” –Henry David Thoreau
When I was a child, I had a piggy bank shaped like a friendly, sitting dog. It was made out of styrofoam and flocked with a reddish-brown ‘fur.’ A metal dog tag hung at his collar, emblazoned with his name—Rusty. I put so many coins and folded dollar bills into the slot at the back of his head that the styrofoam broke away to a bigger hole. A metal circle could be pried off the bottom to retrieve the money—money I earned cleaning out stalls at our neighbor’s barn; money I was saving to buy a horse. I kept Rusty for a long time after I stopped using it, after I bought my horse, after a number of long distance moves, even after I had kids. I felt like I just couldn’t part with him. But then, one year of another move, he didn’t make the cut. I was able to let him go.
This winter season so far has been a hard hitting one—not for snow, but for cold. Christmas Day the high was 1 degree F. As I am writing this, approaching the noon hour, it is 13 below with a wind chill of -32. The actual temperature tonight is supposed to be 20 degrees below zero. “Stay warm” is not just a Minnesota pleasantry, it is a directive of concern and safety. But looking out the window, it is beautiful! The sky is bright blue, the sun is shining, and we have a couple inches of fresh snow. The birds and squirrels have been frequent visitors at the bird feeders this week to fuel up for the cold weather. The deer even make their way to the feeder at dusk to browse on the fallen black oil sunflower seeds.
New Year’s Eve and Day are traditionally a time to let go of the old and ring in the new. It is a time for a fresh start. But often, the resolutions to make changes are broken before a week or two has passed. The very things we were so enthusiastic about on day one become a source of failure and disappointment. What if, like the seasons of the year, we resigned ourselves to the seasons of our lives instead of forcing a change that isn’t meant to be just because it’s day one of a new year? What if the new year was about discerning where we really are ready for a change? What if it was about accepting ourselves with loving kindness in this season as we are at this moment? What if the things we think matter don’t really matter at all? Every old thing eventually passes away—I held on to Rusty, tucked away in a box, for years, and I don’t even know why I did. But for whatever reason, it was important for that season of my life as it passed. And then, I was able to let him go. So many things in our lives work that way! Relationships, jobs, weight, addictions, hobbies, grief, physical ailments—all serve a purpose in the journey of our lives, and none of them are controlled by resolution and the calendar year. So breathe the refreshing Arctic air, drink the drink with a toast to yourself and your seasons, make your way to the table and taste the fruitcake and other bounty, and let the Earth and its Master be your influence. Stay warm!
The Perfect Christmas Tree
Happy Winter! Our longest dark day of the year is over, and we inch back towards the light. But first, in this darkest time, we celebrate the Light that was born on Christmas Day. Part of our celebration is finding the perfect Christmas tree—and by perfect, I mean purposefully found, joyfully brought back to our house, and lovingly decorated. We go to Golden Nursery and Tree Farm, in business since 1958. There are no sleigh rides with Santa, no hot chocolate or holiday goodies to buy—just the experience of walking out into the fir forest, crunching through the snow, to find the perfect tree. With saw in hand, we walked under the old oak sentries standing guard over the young evergreens that will take years to grow into Christmas tree size. We passed by an old ‘boneyard’ of tractors, snowmobiles, and specialized nursery equipment—a rusty, three-dimensional history of the tree farm. We saw strips of standing corn and wondered if the available corn was enough deterrent to keep the deer from destroying the young trees.
The Balsam fir forest was lined with towering pines that must have been pioneers of the tree farm. A light dusting of snow had turned the forest into a winter wonderland, and as we wandered through the rows, we wondered, “Which tree?”
Many of the trees were way too big—they had escaped the saw for decades beyond their prime size. Some had been cut off chest high, taking the pyramid-shaped top and leaving a sprawling, bowl-shaped vesicle from which a branch grew from the side of the trunk into another Christmas-worthy tree!
Some of the trees were too small. They had been carefully planted into a hole in the forest where a larger tree had been cut down. Their development was fresh and promising.
We wandered for a long time—the cold nipped my toes and nose—but the forest was quiet and serene, peaceful and soothing. Chris later joked with the tree man that if he charged by the hour, he would make more money from us.
Finally, we found one that was just right, though we still ‘topped’ it a bit, for what looks relatively small in the big forest will be large in the corner of the living room!
The perfect Christmas tree! Natural, not sheared. Fresh and pliant. Fragrant with the heady smell of Balsam.
Chris sledded the tree gently over the snow, back to the shed where the tree man put it through the baler to wrap it up in twine.
Feel free to breathe deeply! Breathe deeply to feel free! The cycle and circle of life provided by a tree.
Finding the perfect Christmas tree is an experience in and of itself. I derive great pleasure from the process. It also evokes memories of Christmases past—when I was a child, when Chris and I were young newlyweds, when our kids were young, when the three of them, as adults, came to Golden Nursery with us—so many memories of the history of our Christmases. But as we acknowledge and remember the past, we look at the present and give thanks for every breath we breathe (and also thank a tree!) If we are old sentries, how are we looking out for the young ones in our midst? If we are in the prime of our life, how are we serving our families and communities and the world at large? If we are fresh and promising in our development, how do we plant goodness to keep our dreams alive and protected?
I wish you all a Merry Christmas. I wish you purpose, joy, and love. I wish you peace, serenity, and freedom with each breath you take. And in this darkest time, I wish you Light.
It’s Kind of a Big Deal
What is a Big Deal in your life right now? I remember when the kids were much younger, birthdays were a Big Deal—even half-birthdays were big! My brother- and sister-in-laws will be celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary this summer—that’s a really Big Deal! Grandchildren are a Big Deal to our friends who have welcomed another generation into their families. A health crisis is an all-consuming, scary Big Deal in one’s life. Graduating from college, starting a new job, getting married, having a baby—all are Big Deals in the lives of the people involved and to concentric circles of loved ones and friends who care for them.
I know that nearly everyone loves Spring, but here in Minnesota, Spring is a pretty Big Deal! We’ve had another fairly ‘easy’ winter in terms of snow and cold, but there is a collective ‘Hallelujah’ being raised up nonetheless, even if it is in a Minnesota nice and stoically quiet way!
The Past
This is the third year in a row that we have been snow free on the Spring Equinox—the two years before that we still had snow up to our knees. So in those terms, we are way ahead of the game. But besides a few green blades of grass (and wild strawberries) and some swollen tree buds, it doesn’t look very much like spring out there yet.
The Present
It doesn’t really matter though—we know it’s coming—the calendar told us so! The thing that makes Spring so sweet is going through the ‘hardship’ or work of winter. Snow shoveling, walking and driving on snow and ice, the daily chore of bundling up in boots, heavy coats, hats, and mittens, keeping the house at a cozy temperature, and daily walks with the frigid north wind are the realities of Winter—neither good nor bad. But Spring, as it unfolds, is a relief from all those things. On Friday, even though I was still bundled against the cold and wind, I saw and heard a choir of Robins flitting joyfully about in the neighbor’s yard! That’s a Big Deal!
The Future
Big Deals is people’s lives are often milestones of time and effort put into an event that is dear to someone’s heart. Other Big Deals—like birthdays and babies—are celebrations of absolute gifts we are blessed to experience. Yet others are heart-breaking moments that threaten our lives, livelihoods, and purpose. The common denominator seems to be the heart—what we hold dear, what we work hard to preserve, what means the most to us, what gives us joy.
My Big Deal today is celebrating three years of taking photographs and writing messages for my NorthStarNature blog. I have published 206 posts with thousands of photographs in those three years! It has been an experience of the heart : to showcase the incredible beauty of Nature, to share parts of my life story in an attempt to connect us with our world and with one another, to examine how Nature can teach us about Life, and a way for me to contribute in some way to the greater Good. Every time I go out into Nature with the camera, looking for the Beauties and the Gifts, I become just another one of Her creations in that whole Circle of Life. My body is calmed, and my spirit is lifted. Writing this blog has unmuted my voice. It has gotten this shy wallflower out into the dance of the world a bit—the cyber-world, no less! I want to thank you for joining me on this journey—I appreciate you reading and sharing my words and photographs. Blessings and Goodness to you all!
January Meltdown
Many of us have experienced the meltdown of a toddler. It begins slowly, often unnoticeably, with fidgeting or quietness. We notice it when the whining starts, the unhappy whimpers, the stiff bodies refusing to conform to car seats or highchairs, the turning away of eye contact, the swatting of tiny hands at anything within reach. Full-on crying ensues that cannot be quieted or calmed, and usually the body is fully involved with kicking, hitting, arching of the back, and rolling around. A meltdown is a full-body experience.
This week, typically the coldest part of winter here in Minnesota, we are experiencing an abnormal meltdown. Daytime temperatures crept above freezing, softening the fluffy whiteness and melting the thin layer of snow on the driveway. Freezing temps at night iced the sidewalks and roads to slickness again. Precipitation during the day came as drizzle and raindrops instead of snowflakes, and fog formed with all the melting moisture. Air quality plummeted. The last three nights, the temperature stayed above freezing—normal low temperatures of mid to late April. The melting snow dripped off the roof sounding like I was in the wrong season or place. With all the bleak fog, there wasn’t a chance for sunshine. A meltdown is a full-sensory experience.
The meltdown of a toddler isn’t an aberration—it occurs within a normal developmental stage of growth when children are egocentric and often struggling with communicating their needs and wants. A meltdown is a reaction to feeling overwhelmed, and there is an underlying reason or reasons—they are tired, hungry, frustrated, bored, thirsty, and/or overstimulated, which often happens when our children are always on adult schedules. An attentive parent can anticipate problems and notice the signs that something isn’t quite right. Intervention with a snack, a nap, a change of plans, or attention can prevent a meltdown.
November was abnormally warm (Not Your Normal November), and we still had flowers blooming. This January meltdown is also out of the ordinary, with nighttime temperatures above freezing (32 degrees F) when they usually average 1-2 degrees above 0. We will have more snow and colder temperatures, but the whimpering has begun. As caretakers of this Earth, it is our responsibility to notice the signs that something isn’t quite right and intervene with positive actions. After all, we don’t want the meltdown to be a full-earth experience.
The Parable of the Flaming Sunset
A day of snow ended with a flaming sunset that glowed warm yellow and orange in the center of the light. Cool pink and blue surrounded the flame, reflecting the cold whiteness of the January earth. The Old One knew this was no ordinary sunset—the light signified a special unfolding of time and events.
The next morning snow fell again. With it came an unusual occurrence—a large black crow flew to the tree beside the dwelling and spoke to the Old One. “Go to the top of the world where the Three Wise Guardians stand, then find the Giver of Life.”
A second crow flew to the Maple tree and this time the message was for the Young One. “Make a path for the Old One, for the Old One has spent many years making a path for you.” A tiny Chickadee scribe marked the words of these extraordinary messengers.
The Old One and the Young One looked at one another in dismay at the talking of the crows. Remembering the flaming sunset from the night before, the Old One prepared for the walk to the top of the world with hope and excitement. The snow stopped falling, and the sky became a brilliant blue, reflecting its tint on the snow.
And as they walked through the snow, the Young One made a path for the Old One, just as the crow had instructed.
They reached the top of the world where the guardian Oaks stood strong and wind-swept.
“Find the Giver of Life,” thought the Old One. So the Old One followed the Young One down the steep hill to the River, holding on to resilient saplings for support, and was glad the trail blazed by young legs made the going a little easier.
The River was covered in ice and snow. A circle of open water along the bank warned the Young One and Old One not to walk on the ice, for the flowing current underneath made the way uncertain and dangerous. So they walked between the shore and the rocky outcroppings.
Old One stepped on something under the snow that crunched and gave away. Young One, who had walked the path before the snow, said it was trash, bags of trash. Old One was horrified that such a beautiful, life-giving place was littered with garbage. Dispirited, Old One turned to go back, wondering why the crows had sent them down to the River, the Giver of Life, only to find danger in the ice-covered river and rubbish strewn along its shores. All covered over with pure white, beautiful snow.
The walk back home was more difficult. The steep hill and frigid cold grabbed the air from Old One’s lungs. The trek that had started out so hopeful and inspiring had turned arduous and disheartening. What did the Three Wise Guardians at the top of the world know about the journey and what lay below their watchful eye?
The Young One led the way with strength and silence, knowing the Old One was discouraged and slow but still determined. When almost home, the Young One pointed to a log that had been split in half. “Look. The snow has made the log whole again.”
“I will guide you. I will turn darkness into light before you and make the rough places smooth.” –Isaiah 42:16
Pregnant With Blessings
I was struck with envy on Thanksgiving Day, on this day when family, food, blessings, and laughter were supposed to be overflowing and when gratitude should have been flowing from my lips. Instead I was feeling sorry for myself. We were home—just the three of us—when we should have been at the relaxed Andersen gathering in South Dakota or at the exuberant Brake family get-together in Kansas City. I wanted to be with all my kids; I’m not sure that longing will ever go away. For they are the ones who give me joy, who I love to love, who I find to be the most beautiful and courageous of all creations. We had no Thanksgiving turkey in the house, as our last-day decision not to travel west left us with a nearly empty refrigerator. And then, a reckoning: a walk with Chris and our Tamba dog. Nature to the rescue once again. The snow was beautiful, the air fresh and good to breathe, and there was a shift inside me. Aaron, with his kind and humorous spirit, went with me to the little grocery store down the hill where we bought a few things to make our Thanksgiving meal—simple and spare compared to most, but gratifying nonetheless. We listened to Christmas music, and I reverently rolled out a crust for a pecan pie. I talked to the girls, to my Mom and sister, missing them all with a heart that aches and rejoices at the same time. I was thankful to be with Chris and Aaron in our warm home with Nature all around us.
Prayer for Nature
by Walter Rauschenbusch (1861–1918)
O God, we thank you for this universe, our home; and for its vastness and richness, the exuberance of life which fills it and of which we are part. We praise you for the vault of heaven and for the winds, pregnant with blessings, for the clouds which navigate and for the constellations, there so high. We praise you for the oceans and for the fresh streams, for the endless mountains, the trees, the grass under our feet. We praise you for our senses, to be able to see the moving splendour, to hear the songs of lovers, to smell the beautiful fragrance of the spring flowers.
Give us, we pray you, a heart that is open to all this joy and all this beauty, and free our souls of the blindness that comes from preoccupation with the things of life, and of the shadows of passions, to the point that we no longer see nor hear, not even when the bush at the roadside is afire with the glory of God. Give us a broader sense of communion with all living things, our sisters, to whom you gave this world as a home along with us.
We remember with shame that in the past we took advantage of our greater power and used it with unlimited cruelty, so much so that the voice of the earth, which should have arisen to you as a song was turned into a moan of suffering.
May we learn that living things do not live just for us, that they live for themselves and for you, and that they love the sweetness of life as much as we do, and serve you, in their place, better than we do in ours. When our end arrives and we can no longer make use of this world, and when we have to give way to others, may we leave nothing destroyed by our ambition or deformed by our ignorance, but may we pass along our common heritage more beautiful and more sweet, without having removed from it any of its fertility and joy, and so may our bodies return in peace to the womb of the great mother who nourished us and our spirits enjoy perfect life in you.
I’m so thankful for Nature. On this Thanksgiving weekend, it is fitting to pray for the Earth we call home, the Earth that provides the air we breathe, the water we drink, the soil and sun to grow our food. If God were to listen to the ‘voice of the earth’ now, one hundred years after this prayer was written, I wonder if the Creator would hear a song or a moan of suffering. As in the rest of life, it would probably be a combination of the two. I know the song is sweet and uplifting in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness, but imagine the suffering song in the long-parched drought areas of the West. Theologian Rauschenbusch also asks God to ‘free our souls of blindness that comes from preoccupation with the things of life, and of the shadows of passion.’ Are we blinded by consumerism at this time of year? What does the darkness of our passions—greed, envy, fear, egotism, and bigotry—do to our souls and to the earth? Gratitude begins with the intimate experiences of our senses—thank you for this beautiful snow, thank you for the heart-warming smell and taste of fresh-baked goodies, thank you for the sound of laughter, thank you for the warm touch of hand on hand. With gratitude, our hearts open to joy, beauty, love, kindness, and courage, and we become the winds of goodness, pregnant with blessings.
Gleanings from March–Spring Comes Gently
In a usual year, March is snowy and blustery, and most people wish away the remains of the piled up snow and freezing weather in the hope of Spring. But this March was different–we started the month with snowless ground and accumulated only an inch or two during a couple of flurried days. In between, we had above freezing temperatures with a record high of 58 degrees in the second week of the month–too warm! So this year, Spring comes gently and early to Central Minnesota.
The setting sun is shifting to the northwest, but we still had some spectacular evening skies outside our living room window this month.
On Easter morning, we awoke to a beautiful covering of snow with frigid blue-gray skies.
By afternoon the snow had melted, and Chris, my Mom and I hiked around the nearby County Park to check on the eagle nests.
One of the pair in each nest was laying on eggs–content and calm before the storm of activity that comes with the hatching of the hungry eaglets.
The trail around the eagle’s nest was winter bland until we saw bright red-twigged dogwood stems and fuzzy white flowers of pussy willows.
Along with the flowers of the large shrub-small tree pussy willow, there were numerous pine cone-looking objects at the end of branches. Willow Pine Cone Galls are formed when tiny fly-like gnats, called midge, lay their eggs in the swelling terminal buds. The larva secretes a substance that accelerates the growth of the would-be leaves into a mass of flattened scales that look like a pine cone. The larva produces its own anti-freeze, much like the Goldenrod Ball Gall larva, in order to survive the winter. The adult emerges from the gall in Spring.
Two days after Easter, I saw the first pair of returning bluebirds–such a lovely sign of Spring!
March is always a month of contrasts moving into Spring, and this year seemed to be all the more so. Record warmth and snowy mornings, winter bland and bright colors, nondescript skies and spectacular sunsets. And yet Spring makes its way regardless–Nature’s constant, gentle revival. My life this month seemed to mirror March–wonderful visits from family and difficult news, days of strength and days of weakness, calm gratitude and stormy unrest. And Life gently moves us forward–to learn from the galls, to see hope in new life, to appreciate a beautiful day and the flash of blue wings as Spring comes gently.
Monday marked the second anniversary of North Star Nature, and I wish to extend my gratitude and thanks to those of you who read and share my blog! A particular thank you for the thoughts, prayers, and comments after the death of my Dad–I very much appreciate your kindness.
Snow Light
I could tell as soon as I opened my eyes–even though only the slightest hint of light was making itself seen in the cloudy, misty morning. It had snowed! Snow light is that magical, reflected light that changes how one sees from the inside!
The east wind–usually the bearer of rain or snow–had plastered the wet snow on the east side of the trees.
The snow highlighted the strong, arm-like branches of the oak trees, showing a picture of them that cannot be seen in the other seasons.
The sedum wore snow caps of white as the snow continued to fall.
Snow light reaches into the house in a different way than sunlight. It reflects off the ceiling, off the glass of picture frames, and from the glass doors of the old pie safe cupboard.
It does not create shadows like a ray of bright sunshine. It causes a glow that warms the house with happiness–like snow days for kids, like hot chocolate after building a snowman, like a fire in the fireplace. And we begin to see differently.
Is it a photograph or a pencil drawing?
Snow light is the magical reflection of light off snow. It doesn’t change the way we look at things, which implies a conscious action on our part, but it changes the way we see.
I had a brief written conversation recently with a person I don’t often see–some questions, their opinion, their honest view of a situation–and it was a new light reaching into my heart. That person’s honest reflection made me see things in a different way. I hope that all of us can see and be seen in a different light, in a way that cannot be seen at another time, and with a glow that warms our heart with understanding.
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