After 24 hours of watching still more snow fall, even my hibernation-loving self needed to get outside. I tramped around the field in my snowshoes, sinking deep with every step. I trimmed some forsythia to bring inside. I stood on top of one of the snow plow mounds to admire the view from waaaay up there.

Then, I tried to stomp out the shape of a giant snowflake in a flat part of the field.  One branch of the flake, pretty good. Two branches, zipping right along. On the third branch I turned, cris crossed the snowshoes, and fell flat on my back, waving my arms like a turtle who can’t flip over.

My first response was embarrassment over my lack of prowess, and annoyance at the now-flawed design. My creative vision was ruined! And maybe more importantly, my backside was cold and wet. (Then again, who is actually skilled at making giant snowshoe pictures? I blame the Olympics, making all that sliding around look graceful and natural.)

Suddenly I saw myself from above, helplessly wriggling about in the middle of all that whiteness, and with the next breath I was laughing and laughing. I made a little snow angel, fought my way upright, and was quickly hot cocoa-bound (which of course is the main point of going outdoors in winter anyway).

Dear ones, may we find new ways to play.

May we cling a little less tightly to winning.

May we savor the sweetness that follows. 

Poetry lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world.   – Shelley

I’ve been experimenting with some new habits and rituals lately, and the one that has had the most immediate “return on time” is deceptively simple. Instead of starting the morning by scrolling email or headlines before my feet even hit the floor, I start the day with a poem. On paper. My selections are brief, so this takes all of three minutes.

Friends, it is transformative. First, the day is magically expanded. Three minutes feels like three hours. Second, my experience is heightened. In that liminal state first thing in the morning, the poems read differently, somehow both clearer and more mystical. Third, my productivity on tasks that follow is vastly higher. The expansive creative space of night is extended, a natural on-ramp to the ever-elusive “flow state” we all crave. 

This has me asking, why did these three minutes initially seem so impossible to spare? What might arise if I continue this practice for months or years to come? Where are there other chances for tiny investments with such huge benefits?

Dear ones, so much in life is beyond our control, or even our influence. But we all have three minutes, sometime.

What might be transformed?

With thanks to many friends who have encouraged this direction – Heather, Anne, Bill, Tricia, and more. A recent gift of a Poetry Prescription helped to jumpstart this practice. And the idea of morning and evening minutes is informed by the terrific work of Pilar Gerasimo and Brian Johnson, both luminous sources of deep wisdom.

It’s been a couple weeks now since the big eastern US snowstorm, but I’d swear that each original flake is still here, plus lots of their friends. Every outing is a tiny adventure. 

The other day as I tromped home from the grocery store with my overflowing bags, I hit a patch of ice and found myself suddenly airborne. Then I skidded on my knees across an alleyway full of potholes, surrounded by flying blueberries. Friends, it was not elegant.

Before I could even register what had happened, three construction workers dropped the heavy materials they were carrying and rushed to help me up. Another passerby retrieved my scattered groceries and bundled them together, before I had even arisen.

The next day, a kid in front of me went sliding across the pathway at the park, and all who were near ran to them, as automatically as the kid’s own family. At the next corner, a man hesitated at the particularly blocked-up intersection, and two others easily took his arm to help him cross as the traffic waited, miraculously honk-free.

Dear ones, we will all find our feet swept out from under us at times.

May we be surrounded by helpers when we stumble.

May we rush to cushion others as they slide.

Happy St. Brigid’s Day! As we arc towards the springtime, current temperatures be darned, I’ve confirmed plans to spend more time outdoors this year. 

This intention, plus the headlines on any given day, have me returning yet again to the Wendell Berry poem below. I cannot count the number of times I have taken shelter in the image of “the day-blind stars waiting with their light.”

Accompanying this grace of the world, and sometimes even more important to me, is the wonder that can so easily be accessed through our earthly places and fellow beings. Monarchs fly 3000 miles on those paper-thin wings during their migrations, with precision that would make any GPS system spark green with envy. Honeybees, paper wasps, and squishy sea creatures all craft homes from proteins made by their own bodies, while illuminating the most beautiful math in the universe. Mangroves turn salt water into fresh. Narwhals exist.

Dear ones, right this minute, things may seem cold and dark, both literally and metaphorically.

And yet.

The Peace of Wild Things, by Wendell Berry 

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

A collection of Berry’s writing that includes this poem can be found here, and a terrific OnBeing conversation with Krista Tippett and Ellen Davis, featuring Berry’s poetry, can be found here.