Anticipation

For the past month or so, as the weather has warmed, I’ve been anticipating sitting out on the front deck of my cabin. It’s one of my favorite activities here: just sitting, listening to the bird calls, the wind through the ponderosas, noting everything in my immediate landscape—and  maybe with a good book in my lap and a glass of ice tea or wine.

 

The last time I was here, when I found all the snow had melted, I retrieved one of the green metal chairs from the garage and set it out on the front porch (below), hopeful that I would be able to use it. But it was windy and cool that day and the wind chased me back inside after about 10 minutes.

 

So last week, with temperatures forecast to be in the 80s in Boulder, I hurried to the cabin on Wednesday, sure I could sit outside, even thought the temperatures are 10 to 20 degrees cooler in Meeker Park than in Boulder. But I couldn’t beat the approaching bad weather, and by the time I got up there, it was already cloudy and windy.

 

And then I woke Thursday morning to 8 inches of new snow. This wasn’t what I wanted or even expected. And I thought about how much of the time when something  isn’t the way I wanted or expected, I feel disappointed, annoyed, and close myself to what’s there. It’s like returning to someplace you have fond memories of—maybe a lake where the water had been an intense blue and the breezes were light, just enough to ruffle your hair. You carry a memory, ache to go back, but when you return, the skies are sullen, the water is flat and gray. You feel cheated.

 

When I woke Thursday morning and found the snow, that’s how I felt. It was almost May, time to break out the shorts and T-shirts, and instead I was digging for the snow brush in my car. But when I sat down to meditate, and my mind reached some place of acceptance, I suddenly saw the beauty outside my window. The pine trees were almost buried in huge clumps of snow, gleaming in the sunlight. Every so often the combination of sun and slight wind would disturb one of the clumps, and they would come drifting down, scattering small flakes sideways, like veils of snow spun through the trees.

 

When I went out to take photos, I saw that the whole landscape had been transformed, yesterday’s brown valley now a basin of white, the peaks covered in snow (although Mount Meeker remained hidden in clouds), snow outlining the aspen branches and smothering the cabins in a white blanket, everything sharp and clear.

 

Life wasn’t disappointing me. It was thrilling me, showing me new landscapes—as long as I kept my heart open.

Comments

[Rosemary Carstens]

There's such a lesson in this story, Kathy. How often do we sulk back into our shell when something isn't as we envisioned it? I must remind myself to ask, "What IS here, what is beautiful today?" or, even, "What lesson is there that will make these hours worthwhile?" It's not enough just to hunker down and endure a situation that has not turned out as we'd hoped, although sometimes, I know, that's the best choice. You really turned that day around--nature has a way of making us do that.

[Jennifer]

Lovely description of how it is when you drop the struggle … Thanks for this, Kathy.

[shoney]

Thank you for the lesson again to let go of what we think we want and see the beauty/gift/joy is what is present...

[Barb]

Hi Kathy, A thought-provoking essay on acceptance. Sometimes, I just expect to feel joyful - and then... I do! Still snowing in Breckenridge, too.

[sally]

I agree with everyone here, so much more satisfaction from finding what's there and not pass judgment about it...just see, feel, notice, accept the joy in all of life. We struggle so much and get so wrapped up in the internal word and make ourselves miserable and stressed out because we can't control. Thanks for the meditation and the reminder to just let go and let spirit flow threw us.

[Julene]

"Every so often the combination of sun and slight wind would disturb one of the clumps, and they would come drifting down, scattering small flakes sideways, like veils of snow spun through the trees." That's a gorgeous sentence, perfectly describing a gorgeous winter event. And the picture of the cabin is just lovely. Are we seeing the birth of a book in these posts? I think maybe so.

Once again, you caused me to look out my own window, at the prairie after (yet another!) snow storm. It is stunning to see all that lush grass mottled in white, but to write a sentence such as the one above would take me half the morning.

[advepeWew]

Angry Birds