First day of winter

 

        Today is the first day of winter. It really should be a day for great celebration. This is called the shortest day of the year, but in reality it will just have the least daylight of any day of the year. That means that tomorrow we will be on our way toward spring, renewed life, and longer days.

As I walked through our Black Fox Hollow with Max and Milo I thought about how so many people see this time of year as ugly. I don't see it, but I'm the only one looking through my eyes. The Osage Orange doesn't grow its fruit until after most other trees have lost their leaves. Large fruit now lay on the ground awaiting the opportunity to create a new life.

My parents moved to what we called "snow country" when I was still in elementary school. The area of northwestern Pennsylvania, nestled up against the Allegheny Mountains, received an average of 110 inches of snow by January 1. Towns would literally truck snow out of the towns and dump it into lakes, rivers or down the side of a mountain. Even semis would put flags on the tractors of their rigs that extended well above the cab because the snow at intersections was often so deep that one could not see even a giant truck coming. The snow started in October and would extend well into April. They said that they would never leave snow country because the snow covered the ugliness of winter.

Am I so strange that I don't find the winter landscape, sans snow, ugly? Max, Milo and I stop and sit on a log. I listen intently. I know my hearing isn't as good as it used to be. I hear a creature - bird or squirrel - high in an Ash tree. It is almost a clicking sound. The sound of the wind through the trees dominates, until a jet going to or from the nearby military base butts in. We hung wind chimes in the hollow. I know, I talk a lot about listening to nature, but somehow the chimes are almost like me singing along or a loving accompaniment. Like singing Om Mani as I walk along, it seems to blend and compliment; an attempt to be a part of nature's chorus and not be a soloist.

Dry leaves of all shades of brown cover the ground. After a full and meaningful life, they are not done yet. From their genesis they were a vital part of the living tree and the nature in which it lived. They played an important role in photosynthesis. And now, lying dead on the ground, their contribution to life and nature does not stop. They contain nitrogen, phosphorous and potassium, vital elements for rich soil. They will never not be a part of nature. We would be wise to imitate them. Live our lives to the best of our abilities, not trying to out do or be better than anyone. Live in the present with a certain knowledge that we will always be a part of the whole, instead of trying to find some magical place to which to disappear. We are happier and more content that way. It always makes me think of Thich Hnat Hahn's story of the wave that worried about being the biggest wave and about what was going to happen when it hit the shore. He said that it didn't realize that no matter what happens it is always a part of the water.

I stop frequently as I walk. I find myself doing that when I'm out in the wilderness as well. It has become a habit to stop routinely to look and listen and breathe. This is an important part of Buddhist mindfulness. It isn't some hocus pocus. Stopping to be aware of your breath and your surroundings helps ground you. Westerners rarely take the time. We relegate it to a category we label "eastern mysticism" and ignore it. However, great western thinkers like Carl Jung; psychiatrist and philosopher; and Paul Tillich; existential philosopher and theologian; spoke extensively of being grounded.

I always got a laugh out of snobby western medical researchers and practitioners who would call eastern medicine witchcraft. I remember the hooting and jeering when someone mentioned the Chinese meridians. Then several years ago some westerner made a phenomenal observation. He saw electrochemical channels in the human body. What did the Chinese do? Yawn. We've been telling you about those for almost 5,000 years. LOL.

I talk to Max and Milo as we walk. Of course I know they don't understand most of it. After all, not everyone speaks English ... yet. They listen to the pitch, timber and tone of my voice. They know when I'm happy or sad, and when I'm really hurting. They know just what to "say" - their language is all in their body, their facial expressions, wiggles, licks and pressing close to you to share their warmth and well-being.

Of course I talk to the trees, plants and other animals in the hollow. Why wouldn't I? I really don't care if anyone thinks I'm crazy. Experience, confirmed by quantum physics, tells us that all of nature is connected. I don't speak tree or squirrel, but nature is the great universal translator. I'm a lot more quiet now because the plants and trees are asleep, so I whisper as I talk to Max and Milo. They seem to understand. Some scientists would say that the plants and trees are just dormant. What is the Latin verb for to sleep? Dormio. And the French? Dormir. (People did use language before Old English came about in the 5th. century.)

The sun today warms the Earth. It isn't doing much for the wind, but that's okay. It is all important. Normally the wind would have the trees chattering, but il sont endormis. Birds and Squirrels scurry about their business, but they're not talking a lot. It's just a rather quiet laid back day with the wind humming a gentle song. What humans would call the cold, dreary, rainy days are important to the ebb and flow of life, but I must admit that I do prefer a day like today. I know Max and Milo do as they find a warm, sunny spot for a nap. I think the birds and animals in the hollow would agree, but they're to busy taking advantage of the lovely day to talk right now.