During the first and only fall I lived in Vermont, everyone talked about the hardships of winter, especially for those who lived in isolated valleys like the one where I was living and working. At the time, I was part of a team of people doing maintenance for six different camp facilities while teaching and learning homesteading skills along the way. Because we were so isolated, the change of the seasons had a big impact on our lives and work. Therefore, we needed to be prepared for all kinds of weather and circumstances.
As the days grew colder and the leaves on the sugar maples turned red and fell, I began to worry about the impending “bad Vermont winter.” The old timers in the area said that the caterpillars had thicker bands than normal so this was going to be the “worst winter in years.” I looked at the sky every morning as I trudged out to the barns to care for the animals and milk the cows. Every day I inspected the local flora for signs of winter.
Over time, I became increasingly concerned about the arrival of winter. I was sure that we were not prepared. Like a good Boy Scout, I told my crew we must be prepared, and the sooner it happened the better.
One cold morning in late November as I hiked up from my cabin to the barns, I saw the first clear sign of winter. On the high ridge behind the farmhouse where we had our community meals was a large grove of pine trees. During the night, a hoarfrost had covered the entire top half of the ridge in a glaze of ice and a slight dusting of snow.
As I stood there looking up at the beauty of the ridge, I let out a long slow breath. The tension and worry I had carried was released. I felt no more anxiety and uncertainty. It was gone in a single breath. When I returned from the barn that morning with two buckets of steaming milk, the sun came out and the ridge top sparkled. I was at peace. Winter had come home to the highlands surrounding the valley, and a new day was beginning.
That first day of winter was no different from the previous days or from the coming days. We always had work to do. We always dressed warmly. We always did our best to be prepared for the unexpected.
Yes, it was a cold winter and I did see more snow and ice than I had before in my entire life. But the natural world around me was not in chaos or uncertainty. I had framed it up as a time of uncertainty, fear and worry. The natural world was doing what it has been doing since the beginning of time, exquisitely moving from one season to the next. I had created the worry and fear around these normal transitions. My lack of clarity had been projected onto the outer world around me. I learned that the transition from one season to the next is inevitable and gradual, and that the arrival of winter was manageable after all.
As I move through this winter and head toward spring, I find myself worried again. I am anxious about when my wife and I will be able to get the COVID vaccine. I worry about the health and well being of our adult children and their families. I worry about our friends and dear elders, hoping that all will stay healthy in the midst of this on-going global pandemic.
Sitting quietly the other morning, I realized that my inner worry around this uncertainty was again being projected into the outer world. I was getting caught in a cycle of thinking that was not serving me or those around me well.
Then I remembered my experience from many decades ago when I lived in Vermont and worried about the transition from fall into winter. I vividly remembered the moment I saw the hoarfrost high up on the ridge and the subsequent whole body experience when the tension, anxiety and uncertainty was released in a single breath. As I pondered this memory, I wondered what would be my “hoarfrost high up on the ridge” moment in the midst of this time period.
Upon reflection, I recognize that I may not have a singular hoarfrost moment when it comes to the transition from winter into spring in the midst of this global pandemic. Instead, I will experience a series of smaller moments that ultimately will add up to that previous whole body experience of release and inner peace.
The first moment of release will happen the day I discover the first crocus blooming in the flower beds that surround our home. For me, this is an annual miracle of spring. One day in March, I will discover that first crocus, a golden chalice of hope and renewal. After the long, dark, extremely cold winter we’ve experienced, to know that spring is finally on its way will be uplifting and heart warming. We will have survived this pandemic winter, and the ground will be waking up to new shapes, colors and ultimately the sounds of spring birds in migration.
The second moment will be the discovery of the first King Alfred daffodils and the first Red Emperor tulips blooming. The daffodils will remind me of my late mother who loved daffodils and who survived great difficulties during the early years of her life. She modeled resilience and the importance of kindness. She choose to love and learn in spite of her inner challenges and pain.
The tulips will remind me of my late father who died of COVID-19 on Easter weekend in 2020. He modeled an unending curiosity about the natural world. He saw God’s handiwork in every flower, plant and tree. His love for his family was deep and strong. He was a quiet presence in a noisy world.
On the day he was admitted to the hospital with COVID last spring, his final act of connection, thanks to a hospice nurse’s personal cell phone, was to blow my wife and me a kiss. I carry his love with me as I move through these cold winter days, knowing that great love can help us transcend our worry, fear and anxiety.
The third moment will be the sum of two connections. One will be the day we can walk into the home of our oldest son and daughter-in-law, and hug them and our grandson. The other moment will be when we can do the same with our youngest son and daughter-in-law. Sharing time, conversation, food, stories and laughter is one of life’s richest gifts.
It is the simple, ordinary moments in life when transformation happens - when a hoarfrost appears on a ridge, or sitting with our family or friends at a breakfast table with a good cup of coffee. It is walking the dogs in the park or listening to music as we cook a meal together. For me, just being present within shared space will be the greatest moment of renewal and rebirth, a new beginning after such a long period of waiting, worry, endings and change.
Living with uncertainty is normal during a global pandemic. Struggling with it is not easy. It can be overwhelming. But with the knowledge that transformative moments are a natural part of life if we are awake to them, I look forward to these upcoming experiences of release and transformation. I may feel worn right now, but I am also resilient, loved, and at peace. Spring and new beginnings are coming soon.
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