The redolent landscape, during the meager months of winter, shatter my mind into shards of espousing joy. The sight and sounds of winter rest resplendently around me and I am caught in its cacophony of splendor.
During these times, I dream and plan and pray. It is as if my spirit and my soul have more to offer in prayer at this time of year when nature sleeps. My mind frays like tiny snowflakes sifting through the cold, dry air. The eloquence of winter, in all it’s demureness, calls deep within my spirit. It creates a calm sense of confidence that comes out of seemingly nowhere.
The pervasiveness of winter’s chill feels like an open door, leading down a path I could never have expected. It draws me deeper into its mystical facade. There appears to be no stratagem or agenda to its quiet wave and nature takes a deep breath and relaxes into its peaceful slumber. It’s as if it is waiting for this time to hurl itself into a transcendent sleep that beckons the observer to imitate.
Yet, amid the ice and snow and frigid temps, I sense a dichotomy of fire and earth and warmth surrounding me like an infant’s swaddle. Could it be the fires that warm the hearth each winter, are what gives this quiet season it’s identity?
Winter lays bare, it’s long held secrets and I must listen to the symphony residing in the Creator’s heartbeat. I hearken to its rhythms like natives to the drum. Those thoughts and dreams, that have laid dormant in summers sweltering heat, now rise above the chaos which lies buried beneath the frozen tundra of withering thought.
In nature’s slumber, my mind dances with possibilities I thought long paralyzed and the sound of my weeping has vanished.
“I open the door to a thought I’d previously told myself I could never entertain. Could it be possible that for the first time in my life, I’ve found a place to belong?”—Her Hidden Genius by Marie Benedict
Bringinthesheaves 