The Only Constant is.....

There is a rime of frost on the deck railing. The ground is painted with it. The rising sun has begun to clear a path through the trees and it illuminates the bark of its neighbors deeper into the woods than before.

It is November and winter is close by. Our first snow was in October and it created an ethereal world of unique color. Change is in the air, at least for nature.

Thinking back over the past too-many months, we have adjusted to many changes of our own. Summers, for instance, have always had days filled with laughter and camaraderie, food grilled and shared, close conversations murmured late into the night in front of flickering bonfires. Trips to the beach, travel to foreign lands, hugging and touching and connections made without a care in the world. Our winters, with layers of snow insulating us, kept us mostly indoors as we shared tables groaning with food and cozy visits where we removed our snowy boots in the hall and reached for warming cups of tea after a generous hug. We read, make puzzles, cook sustaining meals, and think.

There has always been a natural balance to our seasons and it is missing this year. Many of us have been too much in our heads for most all of this year. Although it began optimistically, the days and freedoms quickly narrowed to one place and a reluctant sameness ruled. We did what we needed to in order to keep others safe from the virus. In the process, we discovered what we were missing most in our lives. Some things were revelations, others a deep pain to the heart. We have been separated from those who need us most, each of us having to shoulder burdens of grief and distress virtually alone. As the numbers rise, I feel weary of our careful restrictions, but plod on for the good of my family and friends.

I told myself that I am okay with more solitude, okay with phone calls and listening to the joys of others expressed through a handheld device instead of in person. But while I was okay with it for a while, I no longer feel that way. I am missing so much that it hurts.

A big part of this is that my brother’s 62^nd birthday was this week. He died in July. We watched his Ohio funeral on You Tube. As I went through my stash of birthday cards last week, I pulled out Jim’s, smiling at the message. He will like it. I went back through the stack twice more, looking for Jon’s. I always buy my brothers' cards at the same time.

Then I remembered. Tears have been gathering ever since.

I miss hugging something awful.  When the nurse cradled my arm against her hip as she took my blood pressure a few weeks ago, I drank in the feeling of contact. Someone laughed in another room and it felt remarkable. Sue and I, safe for each other right now, worked on a puzzle together for the first time since last winter. It felt marvelous. I am keen on noticing these small pleasures. I drink them in as I would a spectacular sunset. Solitude, something I treasure, a state where I am my most creative, I now find burdensome. I need to find a way out of all this waiting.

I do not mind the thick blanket of leaves on the ground this year as they signal another passage of time that might allow us to reach some semblance of normal soon. I scuff through them on my way to the studio, releasing their crisp autumnal fragrance. I dig out the cozy afghans, draping one over my legs as I settle into the corner of the couch to read. I cook – even better than before – winging it and writing details down when the flavors prompt us to scrape the juices off the plate with a heel of bread. I have forsaken TV in favor of soothing nature films and vlogs on You Tube. They calm my anxiety over what I cannot control and reduced the plethora of negative commentaries filtering into my brain during this contentious month. I bake bread, learn new things. I clean my home and purge out the unused and no longer necessary. I meditate, stilling my fractured mind. I accept what I cannot change (sometimes not particularly gracefully) and pay attention to the blessings that will console me when times are difficult.

It is still too early to put the birdfeeders out. Bears are roaming, foraging for their last few meals before hibernating. Once they do, winter will bring the pleasure of birds nearer to my windows. The cooling air brings with it cozy nights and snow-blown days. Whiteness offers a refreshing vista. The slate is clean for a while. I can draw what I want on it. 

I do not want this winter to have the sameness of the previous nine months, or even the sameness of last winter. With the snowfall, I will clear my own slate in order to welcome new experiences, new thankfulness.