An unquiet time, these late February days. At night, I give myself up to dreams of wildflowers, sunlight and songbirds in the overstory. Barefoot and asleep, I wander the woods in the wee hours of the morning, listen to coyotes singing their pleasure under the moon, follow clouds across the western field, eavesdrop on bullfrogs in the beaver pond and bees in the wild apple trees by the fence.
By day, Beau and I potter along and measure icicles dangling from village roofs with our eyes, assay the strength of returning sunlight and the length of shadows in the landscape. On morning walks, we note how snowdrifts are receding on our favorite trails looping through the trees. They leave puffs of snow like meringue and fine lacy fretwork behind them as they dwindle.
Somewhere in the woods, a Great Horned Owl is on nest duty, and it converses with its mate who is hunting nearby. There is also the toot-toot-toot courtship song of the Saw-whet Owl, that fierce little harbinger of the approaching maple syrup season.
It is a few minutes before three in the morning, and there are wonders to be seen through the kitchen window as I lean against the counter with a cup of Bigelow's Constant Comment tea. The southern sky is a tapestry of faraway stars from here to there, each and every one my kin.
Our woodland rambles are brief this winter, but we take them whenever we can. As we go along, light flickers through bare trees and slants across our path. Everything in the great wide world seems to be filled with light and sparkling. Late winter restlessness vanishes like smoke, and we rest easy in the moment, content just to be here and watching the day unfold. The feeling is familiar, a late winter Zen thing, and it is always a welcome guest on the threshold.
There is a quote from Shunryu Suzuki on my computer desktop, a reminder that the world is perfect and complete and magical, just as it is. "We ourselves cannot put any magic spells on this world. The world is its own magic."
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