A Wild and Abiding Confusion

How can I write about the snow? It falls all night, even while I sleep, and when I wake it is still there, soft flakes falling, a lovely susurration. I stand by old oak trees abutting fields that went unhayed, and flake after flake melts against the heat of my neck, and when I open my eyes, one or two stars - blurred by snow yet not invisible - flicker in the dark sky. Oh how happy I am, despite such a wild and abiding confusion.

The dog turns back before we reach the brook and it's okay. In the distance, we hear deer stepping carefully away. When the owl cries, gratefulness elevates me to the tops of trees, and the lights of the village appear foreign and cold. We are always in dialogue, always with Christ.

Or so I say, hours later over coffee, the dog snoring beside me, and everyone else asleep. To the extent I disappoint you - and we both know that I do - please forgive me, in all the ways possible. The temptation to see meaning in the world is so hard to overcome and yet - in the end - it is all that will save us. Thus this, this way.

Certain prayers are answered quickly - go here, read this, do that. I keep seeing you, the way that you walk, and it lifts me. Gassho matters. And later snow fell, just as I was falling to sleep.

Again and again and again. Certain poems unfold like banners we hid away and are only now learning were given to us that they might be shared with all who have eyes to see. In a way, fear is a good sign, particularly when we do not bow before it, but simply say welcome and allow it a place at the table. In this way, the old sadnesses are given rest, and one perceives the song - such an elegant hymn - underlying all.