(a rather simple story from a different time)

The snows came early and stayed long, much like a heartache. Not completely uncommon, but unlikely for the time of year. The snows  fell fast with seemingly a purpose. Possibly Divine? They smoothed out the landscape like only snow can. Flawlessly covering, and calming, both heart and mind. Possibly it was an attempt to hide some old sins, or maybe to cover some new misgivings, or perhaps even, to help hold a hurt we could no longer hold. It soon became a heavy blanket in which to lean. Like a blanket we had when we were young. When we were so very little, so very trusting, and so very naive – or was that only yesterday?

But Nature often mirrors and is forever forgiving. With the snow, the trees take the weight and bow in prayer, lest we forget. The birds dance the air, reminding us there is still joy to be had, but we must move. Winds blow, shifting directions easily, saying we only need to wait, “for this too shall pass”.

Alas, the storm caught us off guard, yes, but there will be sun again. This we can trust. There will be a clarity. The snows will melt leaving us awash in a new reality. Somewhat muddied, but undoubtedly, much like the old reality. One we will recognize all too well.

On the second day of the storm, a curious fog moved in. Pushing everything inward. Holding us. Perhaps to give us a bit more time. More time to hunker. More time to heal. For once again, we move closer to the fire.

Soon you may turn your face to the returning sun. Let it help dry your tears or gather your fears. Take this time to pray your own prayers. Say your own words. Listen to your own heart. For the Winter will soon be upon us, but the cold is already here.

On the third morning after the storm, a timorous old man walked out with a shovel in hand. The morning was blindingly bright. The sky impossibly blue. But all was calm. The junipers, still snowy, had icicles hanging from their branches, perfectly spaced, as if placed by an unseen hand. It looked for all the world, like a forest of Christmas trees.

So with a heart somewhat lightened, the old man bent to the task. The morning light sparkled briefly off the unbroken snow, as he began to shovel an unsure path. He mumbled a few words at the beginning, known only to him, and maybe his Maker. Some say it was a curse. Some say it was a prayer. It probably doesn’t matter, for he was determined this would not be a directionless path. So he shoveled a path not from where he was, but to where he needed to be.

May peace find you this Season.

❄️

Patrick Spirit

Christmas 2024