Field Notes: Winter 2023/2024
When the temperature drops
Come join me on a walk. There’s bound to be beautiful ice along the trails.
ridges, where the rivulet looks like a terraced waterfall
columns of needles that remind me of a sugary confection
the crinkle of thin ice below the leaves as we step
layers of white circles like thought bubbles caught in time
shadows cast by subtle ridges in a glassy surface
clear and milky ribbons frozen into intricate patterns
icicles dripping like candles from a hemlock branch above the brook
When we’re back, would you join me for a cup of tea?
December full moon
The night sky is wrapped in fog,
thick and close and moody.
Even so, I have come to the river
to be with the full moon.
I am wrapped in the sound of water,
a holy lullaby,
deep and rich and steady,
holding me secure and still
in the muted moonlight.
The longer I stand at the river’s edge,
the more I can see.
Untitled snow note
Asha and I duck under the barbed wire and enter the woods. At the first intersection Asha stops. I wait. I walk a few steps in one direction, then a few in another. Asha sits down. I kneel beside her. “What’s up?” I ask and brush snow off her head. She licks my face. I lie down in the snow and look up at the trees, squinting as snowflakes fall like powdered sugar from a sifter. When I feel the cold through my snow pants, I stand up and we walk back in the direction from which we’d come, leaving the story of our visit in the snow.
Letting it be easier
I’ve come to the woods to ground myself, walking 2 to 3 miles an hour on snowy paths after a week of driving 65 to 70 miles an hour on paved highways. The crunchy snow is not too deep; the icy patches, small and easily avoided. Still, on an uphill stretch I step into the support of tracks left by someone who walked this way before me.
A short exchange at the edge of the woods
“We were hoping to see you today,” our friend says when Asha and I bump into him and his dogs at the edge of the woods. “The woods haven’t been the same without you.”
I smile and say, “I haven’t been the same without the woods.”
How had I forgotten?
The full moon rises above hills and trees, beaver pond and cattails, Asha and me.
I lie on a frozen field in the silver light.
Untended teenage memories resurface: walking home, the wooded path illuminated by the moon rather than the torch I carried.
How had I forgotten?
With the remembering, I am more whole.
You may also like:
Fall 2023 – They’re back!; Walking on asphalt: Postcard to the woods #2; River of prayers; How to get to know a red berry in 8 simple steps
Summer 2023 – First walk after time away; After the flooding; Balsam; Hearing quiet; Misshapen assumptions
Spring 2023 – Eleven reasons to stop; A compliment; A cup-of-tea discovery; Seeing, hearing, listening; Shall we go this way?; A walk without Asha; Blue dot
Late Winter 2022/2023 – Postcard to the Woods; Not in miles or minutes; Birdsongs and heartsongs; Desktop spring
Winter 2022/2023 – Threshold; Reclaiming Prayer; After eight inches of heavy, wet snow; Winter maple
