It snowed again when I thought we were done with snow. This year, winter felt short and when I had begun to become pensive watching the last remnants of snow melt, it fell again. This time, it felt more beautiful and ethereal – possibly because I knew I would have to wait for another year.
As much as I love snow, I love spring, summer and fall. May be summer the least, if I have to choose. When snow melts and ice begins to thaw, the birds return. The dandelions slowly make their appearance. I think they are the last to disappear and the first to magically appear out of nowhere, transforming seemingly barren fields into a celebration of yellow.
I woke up this morning, thinking about a long walk in the snow. We made plans. I even told the priest at our church that our plans for the day were all charted out – a long walk in Red Trail. For all the planning, I ended up with a headache – and not going for the much-hyped walk. I spent the hour trying to take a nap, applying medicated oils and even popping in a painkiller.
It gave me an opportunity – not that I have any dearth for such opportunities – to realize how futile our plans can be. As my pain subsided and as I sat wondering about what to do next – I looked through the window and noticed for the umpteenth time, the barren trees outside. I could only see a few branches, and though completely shriveled and barren, they were moving in the wind.
As the afternoon gave way to the evening, I watched the setting sun paint the sky in fiery hues. Right before my eyes, through my window, as frames shifted, I felt grateful for the beauty around me.
To be able to look at tree branches – be it any season – is a blessing. Trees and patterns in nature have a positive effect on the human mind and well-being. Through one of my windows, I see a pine tree that’s still green. Next to it is a bare crab apple tree – though it still has a lot of dry fruit clinging to its branches – food for the birds that never flew south and for the squirrels who come often for a little bite.
Looking at these branches, I realize that in a few weeks they will start putting forth the buds. From the hardest of stems, from the bare and barren surfaces will come tender buds that are new and fresh. Soon, they will transform the tree into a green oasis – where birds will make their nests, and build new families.
It’s my belief that these natural cycles will go on, and my knowledge about the change of seasons and trust in the process that gives me hope. Hope is something that perches in my soul and sings the songs of promising tomorrows.
“Hope” is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – at all- Emily Dickinson
Whims and fancies 