Winter Prayer, Morning Song

Winter stars once again circle the heavens

At this time of year, I usually write something about this season we are entering. And looking back, I noticed I tend to bounce between two themes. For the most part, it’s either memories of my childhood at this time of year, or my heightened awareness of Nature as we approach the Winter Solstice. Why those two? I’m not totally certain.

But this year is no different. I am once again drawn to the behavior of both plant and animal life as we approach Winter. There seems to be a sacredness in each and everything around me. An undeniable presence connecting all. So, here is my reflection on this special time of year. — Patrick Spirit 🤍

“Believing there must be more is the origin of prayer”

❄️

Another Winter morning in this desert and clouds gather again to await the sun and the ever changing color of its brush.

Each morning is remarkably different, but with so quiet a fanfare, it often goes unnoticed. But in my oldness, I see. And birds see. And they sing long love songs to the morning, with never a wrong note. Building on a song and an ancestry only they recall.

And grasses, faded to the color of fine papers — whites, off-whites, and ecru — genuflect before the slow rising sun. Frost laden, they sparkle their praise for this new winter’s day.

Sparse brown leaves left on crabapple trees turn and shake like Sufi dervishes. In the cold air, they cling to branches and memories of a summer that moved on too quickly, like the hummingbird.

And small tawny birds huddle in naked bushes chirping tiny prayers, when the hawk’s hunger takes to wing. While black crows gather to speak of indifference and black crow things.

Cacti, patient and long-rooted, stand waiting for a promised snow. And winter stars once again circle the heavens and seemingly measure our souls.

With a deep green knowing, juniper and piñon embrace this silent season — their season. This season that coaxes a move inward away from the dark and the cold, where we intermingle the warmth of now and long ago.

All creatures sense the cyclical nature and know this is just a rest. So, it becomes a season of trust, a collective season of hope. The time of growth will come again. This we need to believe. So we celebrate with lights and ancient tales of birth and rebirth. For this is the promise of this oldest season. This is the whisper of the Divine.

Seasons Greetings

❄️

Love,

Patrick Spirit 2022