Re: Hi-Meg. Life after the neurological limbo.

[Guest guest]

Laurel and (and everyone else)....

Thanks so much for the warm welcome. This does seem like a good place for

me to land.

Thought I'd share a lovely essay a friend sent to me yesterday. For those

of us in the cold northern half of the country (spring is coming, I'm sure

of it), it might provide some comfort -- but it is rich enough in metaphor

for all to appreciate. Thanks again.

--meg

" Winter "

from Seasons, by J. Palmer

The little deaths of autumn are mild precursors to the rigor mortis of

winter. The southern humorist Roy Blount has opined that in the Upper

Midwest, where I live, what we get in winter is not weather but divine

retribution. He believes that someone here once did something very, very

bad, and we are still paying the price for that transgression!

Winter here is a demanding season, and not everyone appreciates the

discipline. It is a season when death's victory can seem supreme: few

creatures stir, plants do not visibly grow, and nature feels like our enemy.

And yet the rigors of winter, like the diminishments of autumn, are

accompanied by amazing gifts.

One gift is beauty, different from that of autumn but perhaps more beautiful

still. I am not sure that any sight or sound on earth is as exquisite as the

hushed descent of a sky full of snow. Another gift is the reminder that

times of dormancy and deep rest are essential to all living things. Despite

all appearances, of course, nature is not dead in winter it has gone

underground to renew itself and prepare for spring. Winter is a time when we

are admonished, and even inclined, to do the same for ourselves.

But, for me, winter has an even greater gift to give. It comes when the sky

is clear, the sun brilliant, the trees bare, and the first snow yet to come.

It is the gift of utter clarity. In winter, one can walk into woods that had

been opaque with summer growth only a few months earlier and see the trees

clearly, singly and together, and see the ground that they are rooted in.

A few years ago, my father died. He was more than a good man, and these

months have been a long, hard winter for me. But in the midst of the ice and

loss, I have found a certain clarity that I lacked when he was alive. I see

now what was concealed when the greenness of his love surrounded me...how I

counted on him to help me cushion life's harsher blows. He cannot do that

for me now, and at first I thought, " I must do it for myself. " But as time

has gone on, I have seen something deeper still: it never was my father

absorbing those blows but a larger and deeper grace that he taught me to

rely on.

When my father was alive, I confused the teaching with the teacher. Now my

teacher is gone, but the grace is still there, and my clarity about that

fact has allowed his teaching to take deeper root in me. Winter clears the

landscape, however brutally, giving us a chance to see each other and

ourselves more clearly, to see the very ground of our being.

In the Upper Midwest, where I live, newcomers often receive a classic piece

of wintertime advice: " The winters will drive you crazy until you learn to

get out into them. " Here, people spend good money on warm clothing so they

can get outdoors and avoid the " cabin fever " that comes from huddling

fearfully by the fire during the long frozen months. If you live here long,

you learn that a daily walk into the winter world will fortify the spirit by

taking you boldly to the very heart of the season you fear.

Our inward winters take many forms -- failure, betrayal, depression, death.

But every one of them, in my experience, yields to the same advice: " The

winters will drive you crazy until you learn to get out into them. " Until we

enter boldly into the fears we most want to avoid, those fears will dominate

our lives. But when we walk directly into them, protected from frostbite by

the warm garb of friendship or inner discipline or spiritual guidance, we

can learn what they have to teach us. Then, we discover once again that the

cycle of the seasons is trustworthy and life-giving, even in the most

dismaying season of all.

[Guest guest]

Wow Meg that was outstanding. Thanks for shareing.

Have a great day. Sandy

Re: Hi-Meg. Life after the neurological limbo.

Laurel and (and everyone else)....

Thanks so much for the warm welcome. This does seem like a good place for

me to land.

Thought I'd share a lovely essay a friend sent to me yesterday. For those

of us in the cold northern half of the country (spring is coming, I'm sure

of it), it might provide some comfort -- but it is rich enough in metaphor

for all to appreciate. Thanks again.

--meg

" Winter "

from Seasons, by J. Palmer

The little deaths of autumn are mild precursors to the rigor mortis of

winter. The southern humorist Roy Blount has opined that in the Upper

Midwest, where I live, what we get in winter is not weather but divine

retribution. He believes that someone here once did something very, very

bad, and we are still paying the price for that transgression!

Winter here is a demanding season, and not everyone appreciates the

discipline. It is a season when death's victory can seem supreme: few

creatures stir, plants do not visibly grow, and nature feels like our enemy.

And yet the rigors of winter, like the diminishments of autumn, are

accompanied by amazing gifts.

One gift is beauty, different from that of autumn but perhaps more beautiful

still. I am not sure that any sight or sound on earth is as exquisite as the

hushed descent of a sky full of snow. Another gift is the reminder that

times of dormancy and deep rest are essential to all living things. Despite

all appearances, of course, nature is not dead in winter it has gone

underground to renew itself and prepare for spring. Winter is a time when we

are admonished, and even inclined, to do the same for ourselves.

But, for me, winter has an even greater gift to give. It comes when the sky

is clear, the sun brilliant, the trees bare, and the first snow yet to come.

It is the gift of utter clarity. In winter, one can walk into woods that had

been opaque with summer growth only a few months earlier and see the trees

clearly, singly and together, and see the ground that they are rooted in.

A few years ago, my father died. He was more than a good man, and these

months have been a long, hard winter for me. But in the midst of the ice and

loss, I have found a certain clarity that I lacked when he was alive. I see

now what was concealed when the greenness of his love surrounded me...how I

counted on him to help me cushion life's harsher blows. He cannot do that

for me now, and at first I thought, " I must do it for myself. " But as time

has gone on, I have seen something deeper still: it never was my father

absorbing those blows but a larger and deeper grace that he taught me to

rely on.

When my father was alive, I confused the teaching with the teacher. Now my

teacher is gone, but the grace is still there, and my clarity about that

fact has allowed his teaching to take deeper root in me. Winter clears the

landscape, however brutally, giving us a chance to see each other and

ourselves more clearly, to see the very ground of our being.

In the Upper Midwest, where I live, newcomers often receive a classic piece

of wintertime advice: " The winters will drive you crazy until you learn to

get out into them. " Here, people spend good money on warm clothing so they

can get outdoors and avoid the " cabin fever " that comes from huddling

fearfully by the fire during the long frozen months. If you live here long,

you learn that a daily walk into the winter world will fortify the spirit by

taking you boldly to the very heart of the season you fear.

Our inward winters take many forms -- failure, betrayal, depression, death.

But every one of them, in my experience, yields to the same advice: " The

winters will drive you crazy until you learn to get out into them. " Until we

enter boldly into the fears we most want to avoid, those fears will dominate

our lives. But when we walk directly into them, protected from frostbite by

the warm garb of friendship or inner discipline or spiritual guidance, we

can learn what they have to teach us. Then, we discover once again that the

cycle of the seasons is trustworthy and life-giving, even in the most

dismaying season of all.

[Guest guest]

Hi Meg,

Beautifully written. All of us have had our share of winter moments. You know

what I've learned that Winter in itself helps through the cold to neutralize a

lot of what's bad out there and when the Spring and Summer come in it's like

getting a fresh start. Likewise, we can either choose to step onto the obstacle

and face it or step away from it to only find later that it will be there again.

Thanks for sharing.

God Bless

Yolanda

Re: Hi-Meg. Life after the neurological limbo.

Laurel and (and everyone else)....

Thanks so much for the warm welcome. This does seem like a good place for

me to land.

Thought I'd share a lovely essay a friend sent to me yesterday. For those

of us in the cold northern half of the country (spring is coming, I'm sure

of it), it might provide some comfort -- but it is rich enough in metaphor

for all to appreciate. Thanks again.

--meg

" Winter "

from Seasons, by J. Palmer

The little deaths of autumn are mild precursors to the rigor mortis of

winter. The southern humorist Roy Blount has opined that in the Upper

Midwest, where I live, what we get in winter is not weather but divine

retribution. He believes that someone here once did something very, very

bad, and we are still paying the price for that transgression!

Winter here is a demanding season, and not everyone appreciates the

discipline. It is a season when death's victory can seem supreme: few

creatures stir, plants do not visibly grow, and nature feels like our enemy.

And yet the rigors of winter, like the diminishments of autumn, are

accompanied by amazing gifts.

One gift is beauty, different from that of autumn but perhaps more beautiful

still. I am not sure that any sight or sound on earth is as exquisite as the

hushed descent of a sky full of snow. Another gift is the reminder that

times of dormancy and deep rest are essential to all living things. Despite

all appearances, of course, nature is not dead in winter it has gone

underground to renew itself and prepare for spring. Winter is a time when we

are admonished, and even inclined, to do the same for ourselves.

But, for me, winter has an even greater gift to give. It comes when the sky

is clear, the sun brilliant, the trees bare, and the first snow yet to come.

It is the gift of utter clarity. In winter, one can walk into woods that had

been opaque with summer growth only a few months earlier and see the trees

clearly, singly and together, and see the ground that they are rooted in.

A few years ago, my father died. He was more than a good man, and these

months have been a long, hard winter for me. But in the midst of the ice and

loss, I have found a certain clarity that I lacked when he was alive. I see

now what was concealed when the greenness of his love surrounded me...how I

counted on him to help me cushion life's harsher blows. He cannot do that

for me now, and at first I thought, " I must do it for myself. " But as time

has gone on, I have seen something deeper still: it never was my father

absorbing those blows but a larger and deeper grace that he taught me to

rely on.

When my father was alive, I confused the teaching with the teacher. Now my

teacher is gone, but the grace is still there, and my clarity about that

fact has allowed his teaching to take deeper root in me. Winter clears the

landscape, however brutally, giving us a chance to see each other and

ourselves more clearly, to see the very ground of our being.

In the Upper Midwest, where I live, newcomers often receive a classic piece

of wintertime advice: " The winters will drive you crazy until you learn to

get out into them. " Here, people spend good money on warm clothing so they

can get outdoors and avoid the " cabin fever " that comes from huddling

fearfully by the fire during the long frozen months. If you live here long,

you learn that a daily walk into the winter world will fortify the spirit by

taking you boldly to the very heart of the season you fear.

Our inward winters take many forms -- failure, betrayal, depression, death.

But every one of them, in my experience, yields to the same advice: " The

winters will drive you crazy until you learn to get out into them. " Until we

enter boldly into the fears we most want to avoid, those fears will dominate

our lives. But when we walk directly into them, protected from frostbite by

the warm garb of friendship or inner discipline or spiritual guidance, we

can learn what they have to teach us. Then, we discover once again that the

cycle of the seasons is trustworthy and life-giving, even in the most

dismaying season of all.

[Guest guest]

Meg,

I've already said hello but wanted to tell you that was a beautiful essay. I

used to live in Mich. and did grow to love getting out in winter, with my dogs

and alone on my XC skis.

Regards, Sue Ellen