On reflection and reward

and now the days are starting to get longer again

I’m thinking about the word reflection—not just the impressions of light and shadow on water, but also the act of considering another year in a life.

“I think I want to find a mindfulness cognitive therapist in the new year,” says my spouse Janyce. We’re walking side-by-side along the dirt path with our dog who is 30 feet ahead of us, leading the way.

“You know, that’s a good way to describe my health coach,” I say, pulling up the sleeve of my coat and turning one of the beads on my wrist between two fingers. “I think you should.”

This morning, just as I was leaving my weight training class, I grabbed the little gift bag stuffed with red cellophane that my coach left for me on the counter. Inside the bag was a velvet pouch cinched closed with a string, and inside the pouch was a dainty blue beaded bracelet with the word “strength” spelled out in black block letters on a row of white square beads in the center. I’m working on muscle strength. Three times a week I drive an hour each way to take this class at a beautiful gym with trainers and heavy weights, and natural light streaming through oversized windows. But I’m also working on strength of character, strength of commitment, strength of conviction. It was the perfect gift right at the perfect time.

Janyce and I continue along the path silently, breathing in the cold air that stings our bare faces. The day is bracing and bright. No white Christmas in New England this year, but at least a seasonably cold morning with a beach ball of a sun that actually gives off some warmth as we lift our faces. Up ahead, our dog has the rail trail to herself today with everyone else at home getting ready for the holiday no doubt, and she zigzags from one icy trough to another, sticking her nose deep into hollows in the ground. Janyce stops for a moment at the edge of the path to peer down into the depression at the bottom of a slope. In the summer, this swampy earth is dotted with brilliant lime green cabbages and ferns. But today, at the true start of the winter season, the muddy water simply reflects the long brown limbs of trees. Ice is beginning to form in a thin layer on top, crystalizing in places. It’s beautiful in its tangle of branches and sky.

I’m thinking about the word reflection—not just the impressions of light and shadow on water, but also the act of considering another year in a life. How have the choices I’ve made every day led me here? What do I want for myself moving forward? What will be the reward for all of my effort? I’m feeling very introspective on this walk in the woods today. Maybe it’s because we’re only days past the winter solstice. I can tell Janyce is feeling the same way by her silence. When we get back, there’s work to do in the kitchen. Potatoes to peel, Christmas cocktails to mix, dishes to wash. The boys will be arriving soon and we’ll gather together on the couch with popcorn to watch It’s a Wonderful Life. But right now, there’s just the sound of our boots scuffing along the sandy path and the cold wind swishing through the pines.

Lines for Winter
By Mark Strand

Tell yourself
as it gets cold and gray falls from the air
that you will go on
walking, hearing
the same tune no matter where
you find yourself—
inside the dome of dark
or under the cracking white
of the moon's gaze in a valley of snow.
Tonight as it gets cold
tell yourself
what you know which is nothing
but the tune your bones play
as you keep going. And you will be able
for once to lie down under the small fire
of winter stars.
And if it happens that you cannot
go on or turn back
and you find yourself
where you will be at the end,
tell yourself
in that final flowing of cold through your limbs
that you love what you are.