Winter’s serene time and space has left me open and in-tune to the minute changes, nuances, and majesty of Spring’s unfolding. Day by day wonders are absorbed on a soul level. There is a deep comprehension of all the powerful growth that the earth’s veins are sprouting forth.
It is felt, it is known, it is heard, it is experienced.
“The peace and beauty of a spring day had descended upon the earth like a benediction. ” – Kate Chopin
“When spring comes the grass grows by itself. ” – Tao Te Ching
“It is always quietly thrilling to find yourself looking at a world you know well but have never seen from such an angle before.” -Bill Bryson, At Home: A Short History of Private Life
This morning’s tree song was mesmerizing. Their movement and expression held me. Swaying, bending, rustling, growing, being. I hung out with them for a long time, seeing with my heart and feeling with my eyes. Still , I watched through the window as they danced…
Then, as if by magic, I found these words by Hermann Hesse that I’d never read before. He understood the dancing, singing, and wisdom filled trees.
At the end of the words by Hesse is my gallery of trees…
“For me, trees have always been the most penetrating preachers. I revere them when they live in tribes and families, in forests and groves. And even more I revere them when they stand alone. They are like lonely persons. Not like hermits who have stolen away out of some weakness, but like great, solitary men, like Beethoven and Nietzsche. In their highest boughs the world rustles, their roots rest in infinity; but they do not lose themselves there, they struggle with all the force of their lives for one thing only: to fulfill themselves according to their own laws, to build up their own form, to represent themselves. Nothing is holier, nothing is more exemplary than a beautiful, strong tree. When a tree is cut down and reveals its naked death-wound to the sun, one can read its whole history in the luminous, inscribed disk of its trunk: in the rings of its years, its scars, all the struggle, all the suffering, all the sickness, all the happiness and prosperity stand truly written, the narrow years and the luxurious years, the attacks withstood, the storms endured. And every young farm boy knows that the hardest and noblest wood has the narrowest rings, that high on the mountains and in continuing danger the most indestructible, the strongest, the ideal trees grow.
Trees are sanctuaries. Whoever knows how to speak to them, whoever knows how to listen to them, can learn the truth. They do not preach learning and precepts, they preach, undeterred by particulars, the ancient law of life.
A tree says: A kernel is hidden in me, a spark, a thought, I am life from eternal life. The attempt and the risk that the eternal mother took with me is unique, unique the form and veins of my skin, unique the smallest play of leaves in my branches and the smallest scar on my bark. I was made to form and reveal the eternal in my smallest special detail.
A tree says: My strength is trust. I know nothing about my fathers, I know nothing about the thousand children that every year spring out of me. I live out the secret of my seed to the very end, and I care for nothing else. I trust that God is in me. I trust that my labor is holy. Out of this trust I live.
When we are stricken and cannot bear our lives any longer, then a tree has something to say to us: Be still! Be still! Look at me! Life is not easy, life is not difficult. Those are childish thoughts. Let God speak within you, and your thoughts will grow silent. You are anxious because your path leads away from mother and home. But every step and every day lead you back again to the mother. Home is neither here nor there. Home is within you, or home is nowhere at all.
A longing to wander tears my heart when I hear trees rustling in the wind at evening. If one listens to them silently for a long time, this longing reveals its kernel, its meaning. It is not so much a matter of escaping from one’s suffering, though it may seem to be so. It is a longing for home, for a memory of the mother, for new metaphors for life. It leads home. Every path leads homeward, every step is birth, every step is death, every grave is mother.
So the tree rustles in the evening, when we stand uneasy before our own childish thoughts: Trees have long thoughts, long-breathing and restful, just as they have longer lives than ours. They are wiser than we are, as long as we do not listen to them. But when we have learned how to listen to trees, then the brevity and the quickness and the childlike hastiness of our thoughts achieve an incomparable joy. Whoever has learned how to listen to trees no longer wants to be a tree. He wants to be nothing except what he is. That is home. That is happiness.”
― Hermann Hesse, Bäume. Betrachtungen und Gedichte
“I feel an indescribable ecstasy and delirium in melting as it were, into the system of beings, in identifying myself with the whole of nature.” -Jean-Jacques Rousseau
Everywhere water is flowing, moving, seeking new adventures. Awakening the earth, trees, sprouts, bushes and bears. The melting brings a sweet song and a green promise.
Seeing the beauty of creation in all the wild ones, knowing every life is a gift –
how can you not?
“Your growing antlers,’ Bambi continued, ‘are proof of your intimate place in the forest, for of all the things that live and grow only the trees and the deer shed their foliage each year and replace it more strongly, more magnificently, in the spring.”
― Felix Salten, Bambi’s Children
What a lovely way to start the new morning – Dan Fogelberg……..
(the photography in the video accompanying the song is just stunning, click below to hear the song and/or just look at the photos – it’s such an inspiring collection of images)
“To The Morning” (Lyrics, Dan Fogelberg)
Watching the sun…watching it come
Watching it come up over the rooftops
Cloudy and warm…maybe a storm
You can never quite tell from the morning
(Chorus)
And it’s going to be a day
There is really no way to say no to the morning
Yes it’s going to be a day
There is really nothing left to say but come on morning
Waiting for mail
Maybe a tale from an old friend or even a lover
Sometimes there’s none
But we have fun thinking of all who might have written
And maybe there are seasons
And maybe they change
And maybe to love is not so strange
The sounds of the day
Now they hurry away
Now they are gone until tomorrow
When day will break and you will wake
And you will rake your hands across your eyes and realize
That it’s going to be a day
There is really no way to say no to the morning
Yes it’s going to be a day
There is really nothing left to say but come on morning
And maybe there are seasons and maybe they change
And maybe to love is not so strange
She brings her volatile mix of winds, snow, rain, gropple, melt, growth, buds, fawns, raven babies, and the bright greens of new grass in the meadow, aspens and larch.
Rebirth and sprouting and earth’s bounty are bubbling with heated passionate energy to be expressed.
Bring it! Bring it all!
“It was such a spring day as breathes into a man an ineffable yearning, a painful sweetness, a longing that makes him stand motionless, looking at the leaves or grass, and fling out his arms to embrace he knows not what.”
-John Galsworthy
“When spring came, even the false spring, there were no problems except where to be happiest. The only thing that could spoil a day was people and if you could keep from making engagements, each day had no limits. People were always the limiters of happiness except for the very few that were as good as spring itself.”
― Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast
Nature’s peace and the knowing that dawn comes after night, and spring after winter, brings solace and serenity in all ways,
always…
“Climb the mountains and get their good tidings. Nature’s peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. The winds will blow their own freshness into you, and the storms their energy, while cares will drop off like autumn leaves.”
-John Muir
“Those who contemplate the beauty of the earth find reserves of strength that will endure as long as life lasts. There is something infinitely healing in the repeated refrains of nature – the assurance that dawn comes after night, and spring after winter.”
This event was met with dismay by every other human that I know – but not by me!
Why can’t I get enough snow? I’m not ready for winter to be over…
(I haven’t said this out loud to any other person).
The writer, Rick Bass
understands what snow can mean, does mean, to this human be-ing (me). I was reading his Winter (notes from Montana) this afternoon as the big flakes fell steadily and silently down.
Continually. Rhythmically. Silently. Magically.
Bass writes from his perspective as a native Texan of his first Montana winter and his immersion in snow:
“I’ll never get used to snow – how slowly it comes down, how the world seems to slow down, how time slows… I don’t mind the cold. The beauty is worth it”.
“I watch individual flakes; I peer up through the snow and see the blank infinity from which it comes; I listen to the special silence it creates.”
“I stand outside in the snow for long periods of time, in the middle of it, looking out: I cannot believe I am so rich, getting all this snow…. Everything’s so quiet.”
“It’s more like an afterlife. I never dreamed I would live in a hard country away from people, with such quietness.”
Re-reading, then typing his words, helps me to understand why I’m hanging on to winter and to snow. I crave more of that special silence, that feeling of richness, that comes in the sweetness of falling flakes and under the snow blanket they create. Even with the slowing of time, the season went so quickly, too fast.
Spring will come and I will relish the unearthing and the rebirth all ‘round. But not yet. For a few more days let me feel all the depth, serenity and solitude of winter.