A step back today into winter-gray. Snow--and rain--are coming.  Days of transition.

The stunned bushes look even more numb; the beaten grass is a narrative of patience.  The trees, the stoic masters of the moment, are not surprised. The world, especially--intensely--in transitional moments seems even more clearly to be waiting.

We're the problem, having had enough of winter, of the day-after-day regime of cold, storm, being buried, digging out, watching the snow's retreat, the pristine turned into the ordinary, the hard-fisted remnants with their cold cores slowly disappearing--and all amid variations of gray.  I feel my impatience with winter, the fatigue that, only here and there--and as I age, only very here and there--rushes to the surface, fingers grabbing for a root as the mind is swept away.

The real teacher, though, are these days of change, the see-saw between gray and sun, gold and gray, the world a waiting room whose worn magazines we're not interested in, whose 3rd rate reproductions of Paris street scenes and sun rises are on the verge of becoming insulting, whose chairs have been worn by bodies sour from worry and helplessness.

What rescues us is time--we know spring's coming because it always comes. It's not philosophy that saves us but experience. The world waits. We, too, must wait, must learn the old wisdom of the trees.

Allan DiBiase
3/25/2013 01:26:19 am

it may be that world of winter

must perchance become

the mind of winter


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