Manna Meditations

when the light in the woods falls like a hand on my shoulder …

… and I turn to look…

… and suck in my breath…

… and see this:

Grateful. ūüíõ

(Manna Meditations Day 16)

Manna Meditations

two ways to read it …

The Snow
sings a song
you can only hear
in silence.

It speaks to those
who stand perfectly still,
a primal music
drumming in their chests:

Be still.
Be still.
Be still.
Be still …

I think we both know
I’m not really talking¬†about snow.


Manna Meditations

one for the weary …

(…because we’re all still children sometimes … frenzied… exhausted… in stubborn rebellion against that old human need for Rest…)

Blown snow.
White, not yet wet —
sifted sugar.

Airspun, storm-sung:
it beds down gentle,
tucks the lawn in tight,

settling over the branches
like a soft hand on a forearm:


Rest now.

Just be.


Everyday Wonder

the thaw …


When the thaw happens, it happens all at once.


Almost two months ago now.

We go walking in the woods:  me, T and two dear friends.  New-fallen snow lines every limb and leaf.  The light is pale silver; the air cold, but not too cold.

Like Winter is making up its mind.


We have the dogs with us, and they go tearing through the underbrush ahead, leaping and yelping with delight. ¬†We watch them kicking up mud and wet leaves, blackening their muzzles, and we can’t help but laugh.¬†

After awhile, I let the others go ahead of us, chasing down the dogs, and I hang back on the trail, just looking.

The forest is profoundly quiet — the deep quiet you only hear after it snows — and I push back the furry hood of my coat just to listen to that¬†emptiness.

I stand there for a few moments. ¬†I’m waiting for something without knowing what.

And then it comes:  the thaw.  

Almost all at once, the air temperature must tick up a half a degree or two, because suddenly all the snow dotting the branches liquifies.  Tiny dewdrops spangle every twig.

And then — oh, God! — the sun. ¬†It stabs a long scar in the clouds and comes tearing through in solid gold bars: ¬†shooting through the treetops. ¬†Bouncing off the trunks. ¬†Catching and sizzling in the million dewdrops. ¬†

Setting them all on fire.


The forest
is filled
with diamonds.


And now I am sitting here, months later, trying to put it into words:  how paper-thin the membrane, between the dark and the light.  The cold and the flame.  

How fragile the cold.  

How fierce and strong the Spring.

How deep and wide the joy, when at last — at last — it comes.


Happy Spring, friends. ¬†I think we made it. ‚̧

Everyday Wonder

the unflinching honesty of fresh snow…

I go out walking in the white — shocked, as always, at how it erases¬†what came Before… ¬†


And how it reveals whatever came After.

On its clean slate, I can see clearly the crease made by the wing of a low-flying bird.  The tracks of even the most soft-footed fox.  The bullethole of each raindrop, rendered in crisp black-and white:


One day, perhaps I’ll be brave enough
to tell this kind of Truth. ‚̧