A touch of Frost for a frosty morning

DUST OF SNOW by Robert Frost from New Hampshire (Henry Holt)

The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree

Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued

A dust of snow is about all we've had this winter in the DC area, a baker's dozen of days with enough snow to make it look like the grass has been covered with powdered sugar.  This morning's snow/sleet mix has left the landscape glazed like a pound cake.  But even that drizzle of snow was enough to lift my spirits.

I'm in the minority that loves snow.  I strain to catch a glimpse of the first flakes of the winter once the autumn wind turns cold and damp.   That first discernible snow always seems to me like the universe is throwing a party, tossing about handfuls of white confetti and inviting me to join in the celebration. 

Last week in the Celtic spirituality class at the Cathedral that I was co-teaching with the wise and wonderful Sue Mosher, we wrapped the series with a session on celebrating the seasons.  During the group discussion time, the idea of harbingers came up-- those signs that let us know that the season is about to turn.   

I'm good at noticing the harbingers.  I keep an eye out for the crocuses and daffodils stretching their stalks up through the earth after their winter slumber.  I scan the summer twilight for the first flash of lightning bugs and gaze at the October trees waiting for them to spark and catch fire.  And of course, there's the snow.

What I'm not so good at, is appreciating a season when I'm in the thick of it.  And that's when I need reminders of what is rather than harbingers of what's to come.  I need a dusting of snow to help me recapture those feelings of delight, joy, gratitude that I feel when I spy the first snowflakes.  I need to be reminded that today and every day there's something to celebrate.








 

Superficially Autumn, Deeply Liminal

SONG FOR AUTUMN by Mary Oliver from New and Selected Poems:  Volume II  (Beacon Press) In the deep fall

don’t you imagine the leaves think how

comfortable it will be to touch

the earth instead of the

nothingness of air and the endless

freshets of wind? And don’t you think

the trees themselves, especially those with mossy,

warm caves, begin to think

of the birds that will come — six, a dozen — to sleep

inside their bodies? And don’t you hear

the goldenrod whispering goodbye,

the everlasting being crowned with the first

tuffets of snow? The pond

vanishes, and the white field over which

the fox runs so quickly brings out

its blue shadows. And the wind pumps its

bellows. And at evening especially,

the piled firewood shifts a little,

longing to be on its way.

 

Okay so technically it's not deep fall, although it is superficially fall here in the mid-Atlantic states.  For the past month the red tinge has crept from the tips to the base of the leaves on the dogwood tree in my yard while the cherry in our neighbors' yard is embarrassingly bare.  Maybe all the crazy storms we had this summer made its leaves want to jump ship and feel the comfort of the earth early this year. 

I've welcomed the early taste of autumn myself, with open arms and open windows.  I fall asleep to the song of the crickets and wake up snuggled underneath the comforter after nights of fairy-tale like dreams that have drifted in past the curtains on the back of the north wind.  I put sweaters on in the morning and drink a cup of tea or coffee with cinnamon in it to warm me up but by the afternoon I stand in front of the open freezer in my shirt sleeves to get ice for my water.

Autumn is my favorite season and it can't get here for good soon enough for me.  Yet yesterday at my favorite farmers' market I was  reminded of what a liminal time of year this is, an epilogue to summer and prologue to autumn at the same time.  Produce tables were laden with cucumbers, zucchini and peppers as well as kale, beets, and apples.  A smattering of melons and tomatoes were holding on as the winter squash and broccoli jostled for table space at a few booths.  I bought kale and acorn squash to make the first white bean and winter squash stew of the season and tomatoes and basil for a farewell to summer caprese salad.

Many people I know have remarked that this summer was over in the blink of an eye and I feel the same way.  I have a hard time remembering what activity filled my days from June - August, nor can I recall the sensations that usually signal summer-- the smell of newly mown grass, the taste of a ripe tomato warmed by the sun, the heat rising from the pavement scorching the soles of my bare feet.  Maybe I didn't actually experience these things this year.  Did I go outside barefoot?  Was my window open on every other Tuesday morning when the grass was cut? Perhaps not but more likely I just wasn't paying attention.  And as much as I love autumn, that realization is enough to make me want to hold on tightly to these last few threads of summer in the hope I can follow them back to some recollection of the past couple months.  

Liminal times are like open doorways that invite me to a particular kind of mindfulness where I am aware that I'm moving from one way of being to another.  One foot is in the past and one foot is in the future, and in the midst of the two is the present.  I can put my weight on one foot or another, superficially living in the past or the future, but true balance comes only when I live deeply in the moment.