I returned to the woods today. The winter woods boot-thick with snow made for heavy trudging, uphill both ways it seemed. Meanwhile the chickadees and other elusive birds sang songs while remaining hidden high in branches. Everything we long for is here now, heard but not seen, sensed but remaining still out of reach.
It is hard work now, each day that heavy trudging through unexpected piles of snow. I think of my father delivering mail through so many Rochester winters, the never ceasing labor and the smell of sweat through a gray-blue parka. My own labors pale, with emails and phone calls appearing lighter to the eye; and yet I too seem bombarded by piles of letters and packages--filling up my inbox, the mental clutter.
Tonight I think of my dad again, under different circumstances. We are out picking up the food we have ordered online from our local buying club. Mondays in Beacon have become community night as we gather to split shares of black beans, satsumas, and local grass-fed beef. With 187 members, ours is one of the largest buying clubs that Wholeshare has created. I enjoy arriving to see my friends and neighbors gathering on a weeknight, while children make new friends. As we are leaving, my young daughter says- "Mom, you know everybody", noting how many I have greeted that night. And while what she says is far from true, I notice the warm feeling of this community in me; I remember how I probably said something similar to my father, who really did, in a city much larger than this one, seem to know everybody.
It is now end of day and I am far from accomplishing everything on my list. The taste of sweet blood orange is on my lips, as my heart slowly begins to remember-- that no matter how far we have to trudge, or how distant the bird call may seem, this is a precious moment., and everything we think we have lost is really still here within reach.
It is hard work now, each day that heavy trudging through unexpected piles of snow. I think of my father delivering mail through so many Rochester winters, the never ceasing labor and the smell of sweat through a gray-blue parka. My own labors pale, with emails and phone calls appearing lighter to the eye; and yet I too seem bombarded by piles of letters and packages--filling up my inbox, the mental clutter.
Tonight I think of my dad again, under different circumstances. We are out picking up the food we have ordered online from our local buying club. Mondays in Beacon have become community night as we gather to split shares of black beans, satsumas, and local grass-fed beef. With 187 members, ours is one of the largest buying clubs that Wholeshare has created. I enjoy arriving to see my friends and neighbors gathering on a weeknight, while children make new friends. As we are leaving, my young daughter says- "Mom, you know everybody", noting how many I have greeted that night. And while what she says is far from true, I notice the warm feeling of this community in me; I remember how I probably said something similar to my father, who really did, in a city much larger than this one, seem to know everybody.
It is now end of day and I am far from accomplishing everything on my list. The taste of sweet blood orange is on my lips, as my heart slowly begins to remember-- that no matter how far we have to trudge, or how distant the bird call may seem, this is a precious moment., and everything we think we have lost is really still here within reach.
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