Every winter morning begins the same for the little brown dogs and me— filling the bird feeders, cleaning the solar panels, shoveling the driveway, skiing the fields, or hiking in the woods. Our morning rituals bring peace and a good appetite.
I am refreshed by the woods, the clean cold air and the stark black and white compositions. The tall, dark, green firs with drooping snowy branches, like trees in a children’s book.
I am embraced by the chickadees that fly in and out of their branches, chittering, and evening grosbeaks from Quebec with their comical beaks.
I am kissed by the heart-shaped prints of soft-eyed deer, and the lacy Christmas ferns that surround them.
I laugh at how good it feels to be in the company of the LBDs who stop to wait for me when I fall behind.
Trying to be present, I tell old conversations and arguments to be quiet for a while so the here and now can have a turn.
But lately, a crowd of writers have been coming along on our walks, and they will not be hushed. Buck, Shakespeare, Dickens, Homer, and even Anne Lamott have been coming along. They tell me to remember certain chapters or brilliant sentences they wrote foretelling of a tragedy on the horizon when too few possess too much too quickly.
Pearl Buck tells me to reread The Good Earth, especially when the peasants in rags gather at the gate. Willy reminds me of prophecies foretold by witches. Charlie reminds us of the woman knitting, vengeance bubbling and the blades falling. Anne Lamott reminds us that “if we want to know what God feels about money, look at who she gives it to.” Robert Frost reminds me that every day in the forest is different—how the ice sparkles on twigs like rainbows, how the snow covers the north side of trunks, resting in the Vs of ash and on the lacy ruffles of yellow birch, how young trees bend under the weight of snow, turning the woods into a delight of white trimmed arches.
How Frost loved those boys climbing birches. The young trees wait like peasants at the gate until the snow melts and they straighten, enjoying the light of new openings where older trees who could no longer bend, fell.
The forest teaches me about resilience. The writers remind me that history cycles and to keep an eye out for what is coming. Monks in saffron robes, walk across 2300 miles of the South teaching quiet peaceful persistence. Everyday walking with Aloka, their adopted dog, accompanied by local police for their safety, and by thousands of ordinary humans who have been moved to tears. Their feet calloused and blackened, they wear simple saffron robes, carry small packs, and eat one meal a day. They have stolen the hearts of all humans who still have any tenderness left.
Perhaps the Monks might begin walking with all of us, teaching us how to bring about change, how to find peace.
Micki Colbeck is a writer and naturalist. She chairs the Strafford Conservation Commission.