"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, Walden, pub. 1854
Here in New England, Winter takes center stage in a simple, revealing gown. In spite of her spartan appearance, she dominates our lives. We follow Winter rules: keep an ice scraper, a jump-starter, and blanket in the car. Also pull up your windshield wipers if you're expecting snow. Makes scraping much easier. Result is that the parking lot looks like a variety of bugs with antennas high!
After the brilliant flamboyance of Autumn stomping across the stage like a flamenco dancer, Winter is a ballerina swaying in the wind to Swan Lake. For me, coming from the desert’s transparent landscape where everything is revealed, I like the openness of unadorned trees. There is a sad beauty to the bare limbs and I can see what the leaves hide.
Then comes first snow and the world becomes a snowy egret of pure, untouched beauty. Everything is quiet, glistening, waiting. Hibernating. Movement is halted, slowed, as if Nature is meditating, hands in prayerful pose.
Yes, I realize it’s different when snow means shoveling to get to work or school, risky road conditions, extra burdens for the poor, homeless or those at war.
But for me, snow is Winter’s meditation. Nature telling us to be patient and wait for the roses.
Time to slow down, take deep breaths, go inside myself, reassess my intentions. Listen to my inner voice, my internal longing, sadness, joys. Breathe in the cold, clean air with a sense of gratefulness. Bask in the tranquility and imagine… peace, joy, and love. What is my heart telling me? What makes me happy? How can I spread the joy?
This is a good time to curl up and read my Irish Hearts stories. Find yourself in Ireland in Claire's Embrace and Secret Embrace. Or migrate to Maine and Connecticut with the Irish family and read Embraceable You and Mystique. Enjoy our 99 cent specials and please leave a review. Thank you and may you have the good luck of the Irish.
Even as I write this, Spring is pushing her big sister off the stage. Wonder what her flowery dance will reveal.
love, Mary Tate
Each of my Irish stories are on sale for 99 cents and found on my Home page