WINTER THOUGHTS

                                                

The other day, I walked through the woods as snowflakes fell softly around me. Winter gives me a glimpse into places in the woods that have always been there, but lie camouflaged in the summer months. The woods seemed so deathly silent in the winter air, and from time to time, I stopped and rested because I needed to silence the noisy crunch of the snow beneath my boots. I thought of the words of Robert Frost, “Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though: he will not see me stopping here. To watch his woods fill up with snow.” My thoughts went back to 1960, when I was living in a suburban community and working in the cities. My heart ached for the woods I used to escape to as a young man back home in Northern Minnesota. I was uprooted and far from the place I loved so much.

“My little horse must think it queer to stop without a farmhouse near. Between the woods and frozen lake. The darkest evening of the year.” My love for nature had been taken from me back then, and replaced with streets and houses and noisy buses. Even the city parks seemed to be bordered with urban sprawl, and a never-ending sea of humanity.  People always rushing from point A to point B. Horns honking and sirens wailing. From Monday through Friday, and for forty years after, I was sentenced to stay there because there was no other way to survive.

“He gives his harness bells a shake to ask me if there is some mistake. The only other sound is the easy sweep of the wind and downy flake.” Today, the trees resemble silent gray and white sentinels, standing at attention and forming an almost impenetrable barrier. They’re resting now, their naked limbs stripped of foliage save for an errant yellowed leaf, clinging stubbornly to its host and waving silently at me, enticing me to come closer, but for too long I refused. “The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep.”

It’s different today though. I kept all those promises, to others and me. I lived and loved and rode the wild wind. I went so many places I scarce thought I would or could, but always, this enchanting forest I thought I understood and never did, was tucked back into the recesses of my mind. Now I’m back—drawn to its innermost secrets. I leave the path at dusk and fade into the forest. I touch each tree and bush until I reach the banks of a softly flowing river, and deposit myself in the shelter of a towering craggily oak, in a bed of yellow grass. There are no more secrets that I care to see. No more hills to climb, no more rivers to cross. I’m not ready to sleep yet like so many of my friends and loved ones who went before me. But then, that’s not for me to say, and I can wait. Everything from this day forward is a bonus, and I thank the good Lord for being my chaperone, my constant companion and guardian on this wonderful trip.  I thank Him for the family He blest me with, and all that I possess.

My dog, my constant companion who left me to explore, now comes and sits beside me, looking at me with those sad searching eyes. Let’s go home, she says. We found what you were looking for.