December morning, 6:20 a.m.
A waning crescent mooon sits on an apricot horizon, set against a dusky blue curtain.
A half hour later, the road dips in front of me and the sky is webbed with the lacy lungs of trees. The cattle lie in the frosted field, massive black stones. A tall, slim birch at the edge of the field glows snow-white.
I love winter and welcome its invitation to come inside, into the dark, where my spirit rests and is refreshed. Winter beckons me to slow down, to pay attention. Color is not so easy to find, but it’s there if you take the time to look, and it seems more precious because of its scarcity.
The deep textured green of a bit of moss under the pachysandra, the scarlet drops on the winter berry bush, the bronze stains on maple’s bark, these quiet gifts make me pause. I need these infusions of color, these reminders of the life that goes on during the stillness of the frozen season.
I am in search of what’s under the surface. My mind talks, talks, talks, but my spirit speaks in stillness. Its voice whispers, uses fewer words, sometimes not words at all, but an image, a hue, a sense of something. These are the messsages I listen for, and winter brings me closer to them.
