Back to School

The snow delayed school for a day and half this week, which was a pretty nice way to ease back into some sort of routine.

Part of our traditional routine had been our Tuesday jaunts to the park, so yesterday afternoon Little Sister suggested that we head to the pond to see if it was still frozen.

As we approached, we were surprised to see several geese loitering near the playground. (Usually they keep to the pond.) This, of course, led us to believe that they were most likely playing on the swings and slides before we arrived because I'm sure that's what geese do when no one's looking. (They did look rather guilty as they quickly exited the playground area.)

In addition to the honking of geese (and the lone squawking of a seagull) we heard a distinctly different bird call. I couldn't get close enough to confirm with absolute certainty, but I'm pretty sure that rattling call and stout blue-grey body belonged to our friend, the elusive kingfisher.

Upon reaching the pond, we found that much of it was indeed frozen. Sister whipped out a knife and fork (naturally) to see if she could pound through the thick layer of ice, but there was no budging. (Oh, if it would only freeze enough for us to go skating!!!)

She stepped gingerly onto the edge and then grinned in triumph. Not a bad way to start the first 2016 day of school.

 

Hello, Snow!

I've just returned from a weekend retreat with our church's young adult group. As always, I thoroughly enjoyed hanging out with this crew . . . and also with the younger members who tag along with their parents.

I spent some pretty special time getting to know a darling, curly-headed pixie of two, which meant that I also spoke in sing-song for two days. It was delightful to brush up on my toddler-ese. Not baby talk, mind you (heaven forbid), but the kind of talk that compels toddlers to call all things "silly" ("Look at that silly snow!"), or "comfy" ("I like this comfy bed!") or "squishy" ("My feet are squishy!"). I also attempted to recall my pre-school-appropriate vocal repertoire, which included a lively (yet decidedly warbly) rendition of "Ride a Cock Horse." I'm really out of practice.

Because I'm still in semi-rhyming mode (and because I got very little sleep over the weekend), I found myself thinking in picture book language as I walked this afternoon.

I hadn't actually planned to walk today. (Did I mention the sleep factor?) But you see, it snowed. And it's not often that we get snow in them thar hills . . . or at that thar pond. 

And I just had to see what she looked like, blanketed in white. And then, of course, I just had to write all about it in a silly little rhyme. Because I just can't seem to stop.

Hello, Snow!

Snow is falling on the trees,
Snow is falling where the geese
Used to squawk and play.

Snow is cupped in Queen Anne's lace,
Snow is swirling 'round the place
A flock of ducks was prone to stay.

Snow is hung from moss and lichen,
Snow is fun to walk and hike in --
But not so much today:

Snow is tickling my pink nose,
Snow is freezing my ten toes,
And so I must away!

Goodbye, Snow!
  

Puddle Jumping

The rains have continued. Yesterday during a brief lull, I visited the pond and studied the water levels more carefully. A log that I once sat upon is now on the very edge of the water.

This was my view from the log just last month. 

December's Pond

September's Pond

Bark dust was completely submerged throughout one stretch of the path, and I had to work my way along the tangled roots to the side in order to keep my feet somewhat dry. I loved the way the overhanging boughs were captured in the reflection.

I did notice how stark and barren the once-secluded bend in the path now feels. The empty tree branches create greater visibility throughout the area, which means I can no longer stand in the middle of the path and feel like man-made structures are far from me. Homes and fences, though the same distance away as they've always been, now peek through the boughs.

It seems a bit silly to feel that as a loss, but I do love the idea of being tucked away among verdant foliage with only flora and fauna in sight. I'm not yet yearning for summer, but I know the day will come. In the mean time, we listen to the rain . . . and even hear the reports of a tornado just to the north!  

Rain in its Season

The forecast called for a 100% chance of rain today, and it has certainly delivered. The pond and park are filled with water, little creeks and brooks forming where there was once dry ground.

Indeed, He "will send rain in its season."





I leapt from soggy bark dust patch to patch in order to avoid a few overflows, squelching as I did so. That along with the unusual 60 degrees made it feel more like a temperamental spring day.



Of course the bare branches and dripping berries served as proof that it is definitely December.

My log looks much different now. In October a cat reposed in the welcome shade of the reeds. Today the log is soggy and nearly submerged, and the cattails are decidedly forlorn.

October log-with-cat

December log-with-no-cat

I quickly made my morning lap, bade a cheerful "hello!" to the drenched groundskeeper, and headed home for the comfort of a cozy Christmas tree, rain drumming on the roof, and a hot cup of tea.

 

Lacework at Sunrise

The frozen bark dust path crunched beneath my feet, the only sound -- save the occasional cah of the crow -- at the pond this morning.

As naturalist Edwin Way Teale observed one November morning in the 1950s, "An edging of ice, like frail lacework, runs around the quiet bays of the swamp stream. The hush . . . is complete."

I walked in that thirty-degree hush, marveling at "a thousand forms of crystalline art" that had been wrought overnight by my Creator, thankful that I had a moment to delight over the masterpieces on display in His intricate gallery.

First Frost

The thin layer of ice in the bird bath this morning prompted me to grab gloves and a headband before heading to the pond today. Although I walked around noon, the ground was still frosted in the shady nooks and crannies that had yet to see the light of day.

Frequent rains have raised the level of the pond, and the plants have a rather "munched upon" look to them. It's a different pond today than it was in the summer, for sure. About a dozen ducks dabbled about; mallards, shovelers, and widgeons are the most common visitors now.

I took a few minutes to step beyond the worn path today -- both literally and figuratively -- in order to plop down on a log to rest, to be still. The quiet was welcome, allowing for uninterrupted reflection and prayer. (Interesting that I literally saw "reflections" in the water as I listened and pondered.)

The frosted landscape, the icy blue sky, the dazzling sunlight and the barren branches called John 15 to mind, a passage I've been working to memorize over the last few weeks.

Every branch that does bear fruit, He prunes so that it will be even more fruitful.

John 15:2

Sometimes pruning takes place in an unexpected, intrusive way, with shears and clippers. Other times, pruning is natural, quiet, and slow. This is the pruning I observed around me today. The frost that subdued the landscape, the leaves that quietly fell, the branches that slowly bared, the air that carried fewer and fewer rustles, chirps and squeaks. This is the natural death that, come spring, will burst once again to vibrant, glorious life.

It must be acknowledged, however, that even this death, even this pruning, has an unmistakable beauty of its own.

As if the heavens had dripped molten sunlight over the landscape, 

fiery hues burst forth when autumn reaches its magnificent crescendo.

(From Victoria Magazine)

After a time, I reluctantly left my quiet little log and turned away from the pond. As I did so, my eye caught the sunlight as it danced in a secret corner of the woods beyond the barbed wire fence, beyond the frost. I marveled as I beheld a sight I'd never noticed before: A small stone stairway stretched upward like Jacob's ladder, golden light illuminating each step.

When we willingly surrender to the wise pruning, to the purifying frost, to the barren isolation, exposure, and raw dependence, the light will come.

Thy word is a lamp unto my feet and a light unto my path.

Psalm 119:105

Thou wilt make known to me the path of life. In Thy presence is fullness of joy.

Psalm 16:11

And this is the glorious, resplendent light that illumines our steps and beautifies our lives with a deeper faith, hope, and love than we otherwise would have known.

Consider

This afternoon, I considered.

I considered the birds of the air . . . .

The wildflowers of the field . . . .

The squirrels in the treetops . . . .

And I found comfort. As the robin tossed a hawthorne berry down its throat, as the jay flew by with a peanut in its beak, and as the geese soared toward the pond, eager to munch on a plant or two, I was reminded of provision, of plenty . . . and of the peace that comes when we trust.

Do not be anxious for your life . . . 

Consider the ravens: They do not sow or reap, they have no storeroom or barn; yet God feeds them. And how much more valuable you are than birds!

Consider how the lilies grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you, not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these. If that is how God clothes the grass of the field . . . how much more will He clothe you?

Luke 12


How much more. Consider that! How much, much more.