It has not been a hard winter here, but it has been cloudy, so much so that the sight of the sun in a week could be measured in hours on the fingers of one hand. Perhaps it is this that has darkened my perspective of late. And perhaps it was the sudden change to brilliance yesterday that has altered that, at least to a degree, as if leaving truth dangling on the whims of weather. Still, the fact is that the Power, that glance of 'being' often as cold as the eyes of a wild animal, is also benign beyond human measure. Poets have come near to doing it justice, and I can do no better, but it must be proclaimed: there is more reason to live than not, and this reason goes well beyond any measure of success or happiness that we might recognize.
It was yesterday, and we were well into our walk along the river when the wonder of it burst to mind. New powdered snow crunched beneath our feet, and the last flakes of fluff had filled the older footsteps and made them glisten with a jeweled brilliance. More than that, though, for there was a certain something about the contrast of the dark river and the white snow, the water edged by new ice, that drew a remarkable contrast that cried "life!" This was no recondite moment of inner vision, but a calling out to beauty for everyone, a touch of universal grace. In it was The Power, not of exploding galaxies or blood-enraged predators, but of its stillness, of its peace, of its promise of eternal rest among the movements of wind and water. Already, the Canada geese were back, sharing that promise that had been given them hundreds of thousands of years ago, this endless cycle that displaced, that changed, but remained the same. For the geese, they had never lost the heart of the promise. For this human, it was found, again, as it always has been, and I hope always will be.
Geese die, however; if not by age, then by the predators, and even in stillness this cannot be denied. Just an hour ago, as I sat before the computer thinking of this re-emergence of beneficence, I received a call from an old friend. He had been one of our core group of six from high school, now reduced to five with the unexpected death of one of us with a sudden heart attack. That had been less than two years ago, and now I was being told our number would be reduced to four. Shockingly, Bill was now in hospice for a cancer that had spread to his brain. He might not last the week, I was told. Perhaps even now, there would be no time to say goodbye, with the drugs and all.
We had imagined these days when young, and had soberly turned these thoughts over, then tossed them out. It was all too far away. We had forever, as the young always do, but now we do not, as the old come to realize. I don't know how Bill has managed, but I can't imagine him in panic, as I can myself. Perhaps I will find out, but the friend who called has already found solace in Bill's cheerful resignation, as if it is us, not him, who needs comfort. For me, he is the "Bill" in my book, Dream Weaver, the one who came to Wisconsin, got injured in a car wreck and was happy about it, as he no loner had to work at logging. He was also the one who, after a night of intense beer drinking, could knock cans off a wall with his shockingly powerful "whizz." Juvenile, I know, but it is those memories that build a person. With him, these memories remain in bright sun; with him, there were seldom dark clouds.
And so it is, this silent and peaceful, this quietly beautiful side of The Power. It is no lie, no cover-up, no barefoot dancing in the park. It is as real as war, as pain, as hate. Really, it is more so, for of the latter, they come and go, but the peace, the silent movement, never stops, ever. And it is this that gives us the meaning behind its beauty: we know it will always be with us, no matter, just as the geese know without need for thought. We, too, know deep inside that we will always be a part of its flow, even as the hard and temporal tears us apart, and this, too, we know without thought. This too we know from the beauty that holds us gently as the quiet stream moves endlessly through the changing shore. FK
It was yesterday, and we were well into our walk along the river when the wonder of it burst to mind. New powdered snow crunched beneath our feet, and the last flakes of fluff had filled the older footsteps and made them glisten with a jeweled brilliance. More than that, though, for there was a certain something about the contrast of the dark river and the white snow, the water edged by new ice, that drew a remarkable contrast that cried "life!" This was no recondite moment of inner vision, but a calling out to beauty for everyone, a touch of universal grace. In it was The Power, not of exploding galaxies or blood-enraged predators, but of its stillness, of its peace, of its promise of eternal rest among the movements of wind and water. Already, the Canada geese were back, sharing that promise that had been given them hundreds of thousands of years ago, this endless cycle that displaced, that changed, but remained the same. For the geese, they had never lost the heart of the promise. For this human, it was found, again, as it always has been, and I hope always will be.
Geese die, however; if not by age, then by the predators, and even in stillness this cannot be denied. Just an hour ago, as I sat before the computer thinking of this re-emergence of beneficence, I received a call from an old friend. He had been one of our core group of six from high school, now reduced to five with the unexpected death of one of us with a sudden heart attack. That had been less than two years ago, and now I was being told our number would be reduced to four. Shockingly, Bill was now in hospice for a cancer that had spread to his brain. He might not last the week, I was told. Perhaps even now, there would be no time to say goodbye, with the drugs and all.
We had imagined these days when young, and had soberly turned these thoughts over, then tossed them out. It was all too far away. We had forever, as the young always do, but now we do not, as the old come to realize. I don't know how Bill has managed, but I can't imagine him in panic, as I can myself. Perhaps I will find out, but the friend who called has already found solace in Bill's cheerful resignation, as if it is us, not him, who needs comfort. For me, he is the "Bill" in my book, Dream Weaver, the one who came to Wisconsin, got injured in a car wreck and was happy about it, as he no loner had to work at logging. He was also the one who, after a night of intense beer drinking, could knock cans off a wall with his shockingly powerful "whizz." Juvenile, I know, but it is those memories that build a person. With him, these memories remain in bright sun; with him, there were seldom dark clouds.
And so it is, this silent and peaceful, this quietly beautiful side of The Power. It is no lie, no cover-up, no barefoot dancing in the park. It is as real as war, as pain, as hate. Really, it is more so, for of the latter, they come and go, but the peace, the silent movement, never stops, ever. And it is this that gives us the meaning behind its beauty: we know it will always be with us, no matter, just as the geese know without need for thought. We, too, know deep inside that we will always be a part of its flow, even as the hard and temporal tears us apart, and this, too, we know without thought. This too we know from the beauty that holds us gently as the quiet stream moves endlessly through the changing shore. FK
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