In Sunshine and in Snow

A few days ago we had a snowstorm. This winter was mild with very little ice and not much snow, and recently we’ve had sunny days as warm as summer, so the howling wind and freezing rain that came lashing at the windows and then turned into a blizzard of snow came as a reminder of just how quickly things can change, and how unpredictable things can be.

The next morning the skies were clear, the sun shone, and by the afternoon it was so warm again that I went out without even a coat and took pictures of spring flowers in the sunshine, while the tops of the hills were still dusted with snow like icing sugar.

At this time of year, just one day can bring astonishing changes. Only a week ago this cherry tree was all bare twigs, and now it’s a little snowstorm of petals, casting new dappled shadows on the grass. I stopped short and gasped in surprise and wonder when I saw it.

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4 thoughts on “In Sunshine and in Snow

  1. I liked your tale of the invisible horse. I sympathize with what you say about yourself in your introduction–I have always said that in my whole life, I’ve never lived anywhere that felt like home. I wonder if that is the human condition, that we are all a long way from home, but only some of us ever stop to realize it? There is a quote in the book Cities of the Plain, by Cormac McCarthy, where this young drifter meets an older kind of wayfaring sage, and in their conversation the young guy asks, ‘Where do we go when we die?’ The old guy asks right back, ‘Where are we now?’ Exactly.

    1. Thanks for this. I agree that this feeling that you are really at home, and at home with yourself, is central to what is – or should be – the most important thing for all of us. It’s about holding sacred what’s most important, and Rick Hanson put this better than I could ever do in his most recent post Find What’s Sacred, in his newsletter Just One Thing (see link on my Home page). He says “If you’re like me, you don’t stay continually aware of what’s most dear to you. But when you come back to it – maybe there is a reminder, perhaps at the birth of a child, or at a wedding or a funeral, or walking deep in the woods – there’s a sense of coming home, of “yes,” of knowing that this really matters and deserves my honoring and protection and care.”

      I’m also reminded of some lines from the film Hidalgo (a favourite of mine and not just because it’s about a horse) where Chief Eagle Horn says to Frank Hopkins, (played by Viggo Mortensen)

      “I call you Far Rider, not because of your great races and your fine pony, but because you are one who rides far from himself, and wishes not to look home.

      Until you do, you are neither white man nor Indian. You are lost.”

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