2.17.16 The roar and the buffeting

  We got down there, and the snow has been blown away enough to walk. 

So off we went, down the covered dirt road , blasted by the chilling wind.
And of course my mind thought "Oh no. This is too cold. Let's come back another day."

  But I recognize the mind most times now, and laughed to myself, as I pulled my hat down and pulled up the polar fleece neck warmer, the gloves, steeled myself, and off we went. Because why waste being out in a day we are given, really ?

  The clouds today are beautiful with such height, with the silver golden sunlight emitted around the edges. And a Robin's egg blue sky lurks beyond.

One lone coyote of a good size had preceded us, since the snow last night ended. Walking on down along the road, then cutting left into the frozen outwaters, coming into the forest there, all the underpass, where so many small animals live. 

The pup and I walk along , as he braces himself against the fierce winds. My feet crunch upon the new soft snowfall, as the wind slaps up against me. I pull the neck warmer up over my nose, feeling the familiar cold-weather ache in the sinuses. The way of the cold cold day.

  All about me stretches flat land, with so much asleep, so much solitude, so peaceful. No surprises. 

  All of the seeds slowly being consumed off of all the underbrush in this final arrival of winter we have here.

  I'm beginning to notice how, when we choose this wise gentle forays into the realm of aging- of US aging; of dying, and death, in small contemplative bits, the next day often holds so much more equanimity. More depth. 

  Which somehow only informs the deliciousness of the day. 

  So I stand, being 63, as you sit or stand or rest or work, being what you are. I look about me, at the bright landscape . I listen to the roaring of the wind through the woods by the river.

  I begin to walk again ,feeling the strength of my thighs, as I push off each step from the snow. I feel my knees and my calves, my feet landing softly, greeting the earth, and I'm pushing off from it. Sinking into it, and then bidding the earth goodbye. There are so many farewells. 

  Finally, we turnabout, not halfway the usual path. The winds buffet us, and even Dante put his ears back, pulls up one foot after another. 

  I keep scraping the accumulation of snow and ice off the ball, throwing it as high into the air as I can, watching him take flight, locate its trajectory, sinking into the snow, and then leaping upon it, as a fox, a coyote, a wild thing.

  On the way back, I'm warm! No longer yearning for more layers. 

  I find myself a devotee of all of this; this cold fresh air, this precious season, that meets many of us with challenges, but still, holds such promise.