Sitting in my car in by a little alcove of trees writing in my journal.
Feeling the trees standing close by, stillness descends on me.
We watch the highway run past together, all of us a part of the same thing.
Thoughts enter and begin to manifest realities, but right now it’s just me and this little family of trees, quietly breathing in and out together.
I feel the presence of Grandmother Winter arriving, and find myself welcoming the season for the first time in a long time.
I welcome the long dark nights that promise to grow ever shorter with the suntides.
I welcome the sharp, strong winds that call me back to my body and the present moment.
I won’t rush Winter.
I’ll let her wind her old worn out hands around my own, and whisper ancient tales from the depths of time gone by.
I have to love her.
She is a an old woman who remembers.
Why fight with her, wishing only for the child of Spring?
The child cannot be born without Grandmother.
She comes for a short time so that we remember the feeling of frozen earth beneath our feet,
so we may see the bones of the the trees, and watch the shapes their slender fingers make entwined in slow songs of sleep.
Grandmother comes and points out sharp stars of memory, turns our heart-minds back to the long night of our primordial past.
Without her, we would not remember that we too will grow old and wither. We too will look out from eyes ringed in lines of living and bittersweet wisdom.
It is what makes us live, and gives meaning to our long days of youth.
When Winter arrives the light is returning.
Grandmother carrying a candle of hope.
She is surrendered to the flow, and no longer wishes to be young again.
She sees herself in all that lives around her, carries seeds of spring close, and quietly celebrates the rebirth of the sun.
She settles in to weave her stories, and sing melodies from the deep place between her breasts.
Does she see the next world when she dreams? The blossoms of the coming year?
Sing to me.
I am listening.