A Mind of Winter
Cabin in deep snow |
One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;
And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter
Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind
In the sound of a few leaves,
Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;
And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter
Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind
In the sound of a few leaves,
Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place
For the listener, who listens
in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
---Wallace Stevens, "The Snow Man"
“
When
I lived in my little cabin on Overland Mountain, Christmas was one of the darkest
times of the year for so many reasons. The landscape outside had long since
frozen over, raked with relentless high altitude wind between pockets of deep
snow. Inside was dim and dark--a
combination of wood walls and the cabin’s placement (in the hollow, facing
west) produced a formidable gloom. Lighting
was poor. The owners had run lines
across the exposed upward angle of the roof that ended in a single light bulb in
each room suspended twelve or fifteen feet in the air. Even during the day, my home was cave-like---the
halo from the bulb overhead ineffectual and frankly, ugly, so that I relied on
a single floor lamp and strings of white lights wrapped around the floor to
ceiling tree stump along the south wall to
make my space merry in the darkest time of the year.
Elvis and Me |
Those
were the days when it was just me and my dog, Elvis. We spent so many holidays alone, armed with a
fistful of movies (for me) and some delectable piece of meat to share. I’ll admit that it was a lonesome time. The absence of light; the short frigid days;
the illusion that everyone else was reveling in some kind of warm holiday
embrace packed a bitter walloping punch.
Most years, I just grinned and bore it.
Winter, I told myself, was the price of all those glorious summers on the
mountain.
But,
I was wrong.
I
would learn what it means to be human at the hands of winter. To see understand that there is a difference
between being lonely and alone.
Aspens, Watercolor by Greg Marquez |
Eventually,
I came to understand the beauty of a barren landscape, to see the presence in
absence. In that future, one morning,
out before dawn in the shivery early light of a February sky to get my paper, I
watched a satellite break up, shedding parts like incandescent diamonds, across
the star-filled horizon. Snow lay
sparkling beneath a full moon and the whole of sky and land shimmered silver
and white. I felt like I’d stepped into
a painting. It would be one of the most
beautiful things I would ever see up there.
And its price would be the winters I collected, nine months of practicing
being quiet, practicing stillness, on the top of Overland Mountain.
Really nice, LB. A taste of what's to come, I suspect.
ReplyDeleteThanks, and yes, more to come in my memoir.
ReplyDelete