Nearly Perfect

Some days are nearly perfect. Mine has been filled with sunlight, laughter, yoga, warm walks, puppies, snow drops, ideas, sidewalk chalk, freeze tag, scooters, bees and margaritas and converstaion on the deck.

I spent the day trying to figure out how I could start a community movie theater... marveled at the first feisty bee the swarmed my head while Cate screamed, "I hate bugs! I just hate them!" Played a round of freeze tag after Alex bolted from the bus shouting, "We didn't have to wear our mittens or hats to recess today!" And took to the yard with my coatless kids.

My budding gardener stopped by the side of the house to assess the spouting of the crocuses. We stomped down the muddy hill to the herb garden... delighted when we discovered thyme already growing and fragrant, rejoiced when we pushed the withered leaves aside and discovered tiny mint leaves, strong and pungent.

I laughed at Cate, dressed in line green pants and fuchsia shirt, looking like a flower. Felt silently content as we closed our eyes and listened, really listened, so we could hear the melting snow running under the earth, down the hill to the now raging creek, the creek finally free of its icy encasement. I laughed as Alex, the boy who is in so many ways, all me, told us to find a tree stump and sit down, lay back if we could, face the sun, close our eyes and say, "Ahh..." My heart sighed with that mother's sigh as he abandon his Adirondack chair and said, "Mommy! You have to sit here with your eyes closed! You are going to love it. It feels like a powerful laser beam is hitting your face and making you happy!" We laughed as Milo the cat raced like a crazy dog all about the yard, following Alex, racing up trees, chasing every leaf and bug that skittered across the yard.

We stayed outside as long as we could, until the sun set behind the trees and the breeze whispered, "It's still winter. It's still winter." And we went inside... everyone alive with possibility.

Reading List

My reading list lately has been a bit heavy - all four of the books I am alternating my way through deal with women's lives around the world. Each book tells the story of individual women - stories laden with oppression, crime, cruelty and complete violation of human rights. In many of these harsh tales, the women are enslaved, either by their husbands, or in factories, or trafficked into brothels. And even the women who live "freely" must do so in the most bleak and demeaning of conditions. In some cases, opportunity, escape and strong spirit help them to rise above. In many, the oppression is too heavy. Their spirits break. They live lives without a childhood, adulthood without hope. Lives devoid of joy.

Reading these stories at this time in my life has been eye opening and forced me to consider the luxury of we few and fortunate women of the world who can ponder whether or not we are fulfilled - if we are reaching our potential, following our calling, living our best lives. So many of us struggle in a life that would look like beautiful luxury to most of the world's women. Maslow created an entire theory of psychology - his hierarchy of needs - outlining this struggle. We need basic needs met, food and water and sleep, and then we need safety and security before we can begin to strive for love and self-esteem and finally - finding our callings. Most of us live in the top of his little pyramid, carelessly taking for granted the foundation that lies below.

And I am not sure what to do with this knowledge - not sure how we begin to address the plight of millions of women around the globe - not sure what to do with this intersection of life stories, so vastly different and yet with the same.

Melting

Sometimes our fate resembles a fruit tree in winter. Who would think that those branches would turn green again and blossom, but we hope it, we know it. -Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Last winter, I spent an afternoon at a nearby wilderness center. The place has been in the area for several years and offers earth-based education programs, but most locals don't even know about it. I was there as a reporter - hoping to help the owners reach out to the community and invite its members to visit and learn. As is often the case when I am sent somewhere to write a story, I found myself completely drawn in by the owners - a husband and wife team, Trista and Ricardo - who seem totally at peace with themselves and the universe.

The changing of the seasons is integral, of course, to our connection to the earth and Trista spent a lot of time discussing the importance of tuning ourselves in with these changing seasons. She talked especially about winter, about how so many of us dread its coming, long for its parting and in general, fight it the whole time it is here. Look at the trees, the animals, the plants, she said. They use it as a time of rest. A time of rejuvenation. If we were to follow their lead, and turn inwardly and rest, we would find ourselves renewed by the coming of spring - not strung out and depressed.

I visited on a beautiful January day last year. We sat in her cozy home, surrounded by canned goods and drying herbs. We walked through a field to a hut made of snow. We sat inside. It was warm and welcoming and not at all like winter. What she said stayed with me. This year, with her words and massive doses of vitamin D, winter has been a time of quiet introspection. At times, the introspection has brought me peace and better understanding. At times, it has rattled me to my core and made me wonder if hibernation might not be the better option. But of course, without looking inward, we cannot blossom.

This winter has been an exceptionally cloudy one - both in the physical world and in my own head in many ways. Thursday's beaming sunlight brought lightness to my step. In town, everyone seemed a bit more cheerful and ready to smile. Friday's weather was a repeat performance. And Saturday's. And Sunday's. And today's too.

Yesterday, my family members all happily engaged with this or that, I slipped out the door, dug my beach chair out of the garage, and set it up on the ice in our driveway. I wrapped my scarf around my neck, sat down and closed my eyes. There, close to the ground, sheltered from the wind by snowbanks, I might have been on a beach. What is it about the beating sun shining through my eyelids that melts away layers and layers of cold weight? With my eyes closed and face warm, I listened to the sounds of melting every place around me. The steady drip, drip from the roof and gutters. The sounds of unseen streams running down the hillside and under the snow. The icy driveway gurgling like a thousand tiny springs as the warm rays found their way into its frozen cover. The wind rustled through the bare tress. Occasionally a pine branch would sigh and release another load full of snow. It skittered and slipped and ripped across every branch on its way to the ground. The phoebes sang a virtual Hallelujah chorus while the crows sounded off from the high branches.

I sat with my eyes closed as long as I could - longer than I had dared hope - before anyone found me there. I tried to breathe in joy and breathe out gratitude and found it suddenly so easy to do. I came inside and found a ladybug crawling across my shoulder.

Today the kids headed out with shovels - pushing the slush in the driveway this way and that before hopping on their sleds and taking too fast and crazy runs down a steep and snowy slope. Tomorrow promises sun and the next day too. Snow will fall again before it is over, of course. But my heart is already filled with that unique sense of joy and accomplishment belonging only to those of us who winter in the Northeast. I have made it through.