Friday Ramble - Anointed

The world beyond the windows is wonderfully nebulous and hushed behind its veil. Curiously soothing and comforting are vistas which seldom invite a thoughtful glance later in winter, the garden anointed with white like icing sugar, openings in our old rail fence with a few rimed strands of rusty wire looped around the uprights, the grainy texture and dry fragrance of the cedar posts themselves, dead mulleins and grasses blowing in the wind, floating leaves like snowflakes falling and coming to rest in the white, bare trees lightly dusted with crystals and arching overhead like cathedral windows.

The trail across the field and up into the woods to fill the bird feeders is a magical artery, a sinuous flowing ribbon of white looping its way around thickets, brambles and dancing milkweed.  The snow falling among the trees is a symphony and precious beyond words, one of my favorite musics in this hoary old span of earthly days.

 

The word anoint comes to us from the Middle English anoynten (derivative of the past participle anoynt or enoynt) and the Old French enoint, both hailing from the Latin inunctus or inungere meaning to daub or sprinkle with oil, other liquid or salve.  In modern parlance, to anoint something is to consecrate it or make it sacred through a token application of some kind, and there is often an element of ritual or ceremony involved in such undertakings, a dedication to service.

 

It always seems to me that there is something wonderful waiting to be known after the first snows anoint the north, a wild and canny insight that is unhurried in revealing itself to an elderly scribe and photographer.  Chances are that there is an elusive knowing right in front of me, and I have neither the eyes or wits to recognize what is being held out in offering.  This place is already sacred.  Perhaps it is enough to understand that there are wonders grand and fey and elemental here in these winter woods and gardens.