On the promise of winter

and the gift of snow in New England

“Regardless of how much we’re paying attention, the information we seek is out there. If we’re aware, we get to tune in to more of it. If we’re less aware, we miss it.” —Rick Rubin

We’re sitting in front of the double windows that look out to the back yard, watching as the morning’s first songbirds flit around the bird feeder. Dark-eyed juncos pop up and down on the snow carpet below. My spouse Janyce sits up straight in her hard-backed dining chair beside me, her one socked foot fighting mine for an inch of the footrest. Swirly hasn’t seen the snow in awhile and doesn’t quite know what to make of it, running from room to room, barking at the sound of the plow now scraping the long length of our driveway. Coltrane’s muted saxophone is keeping time. It’s a jazzy, jaunty coffee cup vibe of a morning.

Janyce has turned on the overhead light in the room so she can see the book she has spread open on her lap. The room is all warm orange inside, with the double window glowing bluish like my computer screen. I sip coffee and watch as the imperceptible light of the day brightens the picture perfect view to a black and white artist rendition for the day to come.

“It’s beautiful out there,” I say.

“It sure is,” says Janyce, looking up from her book and taking a swig from her cup of coffee.

Yesterday, in anticipation of the arriving storm, I looked up a cozy morning glory muffin recipe online and decided to alter it slightly. “We can substitute mashed banana for the apple sauce, use ground oats instead of flour, olive oil instead of canola, skip most of the maple syrup, and we’ve got everything else.” I said. I think now about making those muffins as I stare out the window watching the birds and the tiniest of snowflakes beginning to fall again.

“Where’s my little bucket of fuzz,” says Janyce. “Selene, let’s go. Time for walkies.”

This Sunday holds the promise of a many possibilities. First muffins. Then a walk in the woods with the dog. And then who knows. Maybe nothing. This is my favorite part of winter, this slowing down to an almost full stop.

I grab the book I have been reading aloud to Janyce every morning, one chapter at a time. It’s part of a mindfulness practice we have started for the new year. I open my book to read the shortest chapter so far, a mere 136 words. I take its brief message as a sign for to me to stop writing this morning, to simply tune in to the gift of this day.

“I’m strongly affected by the sun. When it’s a bright day, I feel energized. When it’s gloomy. I’m gloomy.

On those overcast days, it helps to tune in to the fact that the sun is still there. It’s just hidden behind a thick layer of clouds. At noon, the sun is high in the sky, regardless of how light or dark it is outside.

In the same way, regardless of how much we’re paying attention, the information we seek is out there. If we’re aware, we get to tune in to more of it. If we’re less aware, we miss it. When we miss it, it really does pass us by. Tomorrow presents another opportunity for awareness, but it’s never an opportunity for the same awareness.”

— Rick Rubin from The Creative Act: A Way of Being