Winter

The white blanket folded over the earth until the night became day in bright luminescence. Trees dripped 10 karat ice crystals and adorned long branches in slender tendrils of sparkling beads which almost touched the snow covered ground. The glittering light reached into dark recesses of the woods until the world magically glowed with tranquility.

Under the frozen scene, life coursed. Swirling pools of mountain water teeming with fish continued to flow down ancient paths. Some animals burrowed deeper into the earth seeking warmth while others continued sleeping in oblivious hibernation.

Fall explodes in color but the snowy winter landscape exposes the brilliant hues of new beginnings. Without prejudice, all is buried. The sky is colored in softness, and the world stops and revels as snowflakes burst onto the frigid wonderland. On the surface, time stands still and for a few moments, a few hours, a day and a night; we are at peace.

Forced into rest, we lie under billowing goose down comforters and look for ourselves in frozen reflections. In our self contained snow globe, hearts beat in wonder that all things are possible when we too are blanketed in virgin white.

Freedom

In the “land of the free and the home of the brave,” I wonder how many are truly free and how they journeyed. Freedom may sound free but comes with a cost and is paid in commodities uncommonly traded. Can we ever gain freedom from the past and hold its’ joy fragile as a wounded baby bird in tender hands. Endurance stories of family histories shared through generations of slavery are often repeated in quests for freedom, but what of familial histories holding fast to unspoken tales of alcoholism, drug addictions and suicides. Who shares individual chapters about suffrage through loss and chaos? Who hears the voices of inner demons who don’t allow the grace of forgiveness to be heartfelt? What screams are being heard behind the facades of smiling faces?

Perhaps we are the brave because we are born to conquer - accepting challenges as they fall in torrents of spring rain. When horizons become black and the wind unleashes an uncommon fury lashing out and damaging tender saplings, we stand strong. When thunder rolls across the sky and lightning chases the clouds until it cracks a smoldering hole in the earth, we defiantly stand. We slog through the mud with our troubles for companions until we smell only the putrid odors of decay and lose our way through dank, dark passageways. Sudden storms create flash floods propelling us into other entaglements slamming our bodies underwater and filling our lungs with muck. And still we swim; clinging to life, dreaming with hope, looking for handholds to find a moment’s rest, catching our breath, gaining strength, treading water until we find rescue.

The journey to freedom is sometimes on the outside punching through and pummeling obstacles. More often, the journey to freedom is found in the inner passageways through our past, our memories, and our regrets. But we fight; we carry on. We bravely face each day putting one foot in front of the other. These turmoils don’t define us as much as refine us. Shaping our presence and forging new paths to a future never imagined.

We are sustained by that which is not seen -the promise that the truth will set us free -the hope that we will overcome. And when conditions are right, we can see the past as morning mist – present around us but no longer touching. We effortlessly float on clouds of recovery and strength in freedom’s essence –uncontained and undenied of our unique destiny. We do not simply reside in the land of the free and the brave. We are the free and the brave.

Friends

On a day which stretched further than ocean waters into the horizon, my friends waited and encircled me in compassion. On a day which held more complexities than the world’s unsolved mysteries, my friends offered an escape route into their arms. On a day which held crushing exhaustion, my friends pampered me with kindness.

When determination wavered and vulnerability shone brighter than the moon on a cloudless night, my friends helped me refocus on truth. They were a collective umbrella over my head during the storm. They held invisible safety lines when I descended the cliff. They protected me as mother cubs to their young.

Different days. Different friends. Different journeys converging on the same path. On this day, it is good to rest. For on the quest to become and overcome; to find our way in the world, if we stop and look into the eyes of our friends, we gain the strength to see and believe that we are already there.

Strength

Winds of change buffet the earth sometimes blowing as hot, suffocating breaths of air smothering life and crushing naive lungs in a vise. Winds can channel frigid arctic air through our skin causing the blood to run cold and changing warm hearts to ice. Hurricane force gales strip defenses bare until nothing remains but exposed and splintered skeletal bone. Other days, however, they come as warm beach breezes caressing our cheeks until rosy glows of hope emerge and our eyes sparkle with anticipation.

We walk against the wind and get nowhere or the wind can be at our back urging us onward. The wind is ever present except in the eye of the hurricane. All is still and nature holds a collective breath until it comes back slamming us forward into unplanned paths. Pushing. Destroying. Wreaking havoc on dreams.

And yet, we stand rooted in the earth solid as the massive redwoods, which have already stood the tests of time and people, in Muir Woods National Monument. These giant pillars of strength tower above the fray and allow the winds to ripple through their branches. Leaves are changed in the fall, shaken off in the winter, bud in the spring, turn green and hang tight in the summer; and yet, the trees bear witness and simply grow. Evidence of past damage can be found on the bark and in the life rings; and yet, these giants grow taller and reach higher every year.

These weathered Muir Redwoods appear as if they touch the heavens. Perhaps they do; and if we reach up and lift our eyes above, we too can find the strength to remain standing tall.

Perspective

The car was parked under the wrong tree. Missiles of brown splattered like tobacco spit on the metal surface and I had to rush before becoming the next victim. The wind whipped my hair out of place and mocked my painstaking attempts of care. As I brushed errant locks out of my eyes, I noticed him standing across the street blowing his breath on cold fingers in a useless attempt to get warm. An old truck pulled up beside him and stopped.

I couldn’t determine if I needed safety and if so, which door beckoned at the gate of the converted school building. I looked back at the man and the car and suddenly I was forced to shade my eyes from the sun’s bright floodlights. It was only then that I stopped dead in my tracks in the middle of the street. The oak tree was covered in shimmering lights and danced under morning sunbeams. Snow dusted each branch on top of layers of glazed ice. I imagined marches of confederate soldiers, KKK members and Vietnam War protestors gathering under its’ protective branches. Against the vivid blue sky and beyond the magical shimmer of the solid white tree, the city’s skyline of metal and glass formed a technological backdrop to this solitary giant standing firm in the midst of new urban warfare.

Looking back at the man in the street for an instant, we both turned our attention back to the majestic, towering tree. We stood transfixed in the startling beauty of the morning sun which touched each grain of wood lighting every crystal sending shimmering glitter into the darkest of shadows. The stranger then shielded his eyes and looked back toward me. I followed his gaze to a holly bush protected behind a black iron fence. Patches of green pierced the white blanket and bright red berries nestled safely within the virgin snow. Slipping my hand between the metal bars, I touched the cold snow and smiled.

“Have a good morning,” I cried. He waved back and I carried the crystal scene in my heart and soul throughout the appointment. Back onto the street, I noticed my car was converted from silver to brown, but it did not matter. I looked back at the enchanted oak tree and smiled all the way to the car wash.