We had enough to just fill the rise between step treads on the deck, so that would be 8" here. Yes, it's gorgeous. One must have thankfulness and joy behind the eyes to see the beauty of snow, I suspect, and the willingness to be contented in place. And the comfort of enough.
Today I lack only the mindset (maybe it's a belly-felt sense?) of thankfulness. It is for this restless feeling, though, that I have been practicing sitting in meditation, that intentional, practical way of reaching for calm in a stormy interior. Or for calm in a stormy exterior, of course. Most of my storms, real and troubling storms, are interior ones, though. I admit this.
Every year I notice a clear dawn after a February storm that coats branches with slick, wet, heavy snow. Morning washes upward in rainbow colors. From petal-plush black, like the darkest tulip, to wood sorrel mauve, to a fuchsia blush, to the wide variety of azalea pinks. Then palest apple blossom heart, and a touch of summer tan and sand tinged with orange and yellow streaks, pale as thin-mixed watercolors. I am reminded of seasons gone, and of a painted prelude for the seasons to come. Even the snowy earth reflects the pastels in the sky, and the world glows.
White-tufted dogwoods look frilly and ruffled. Wineberry brambles bend and bow with natural, exquisite grace. A butler to royalty should do so well. Cedars and pines droop as if weighted with jewels: fire opal, rose quartz, amethyst. Every little twig, stalk and seed pod is fancy, decked out in finery fit for a ball. There it is, the February promise, that misty, soft, gentle, passing first light that holds an open-handed, tentative and sky-blue-clear promise of spring.
And so, after some time of intentional noticing and quiet, meditative, breath-focused sitting, I am holding the joy of the February promise found in the sky once again this morning.
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