Hibernating

Last week with the cold temperatures, and fresh snow several days in a row, I felt like I was

While part of me wanted to go out for a walk, most of me said, “Forget it. I’m staying in where it’s warm.”

I read a lot, made photographs inside the house and through the windows of our house, and rested. The old Lutheran Protestant part of my brain was saying that I should get busy and do something.

But then I remembered that I don’t do shoulds. And I do listen to my body and what it says. Clearly it was saying that I needed to rest. So I rested.

Sometimes resting and hibernating are just what a body needs. Soon I hope to walk outside again. But for now I am content to read books, cuddle with Gracie my cat, hug my sweet and ever loving Jon, and hibernate. (Though today I plan to do some Soma Yoga which feels like resting, and a few physical therapy exercises aimed at reducing some pain issues I’ve been having.)

Here is a Mary Oliver poem that I found today that expresses the recent snowfalls beautifully.

White-Eyes

In winter

    all the singing is in

         the tops of the trees

             where the wind-bird

with its white eyes

    shoves and pushes

         among the branches.

             Like any of us

he wants to go to sleep,

    but he’s restless—

         he has an idea,

             and slowly it unfolds

from under his beating wings

    as long as he stays awake.

         But his big, round music, after all,

             is too breathy to last.

So, it’s over.

    In the pine-crown

         he makes his nest,

             he’s done all he can.

I don’t know the name of this bird,

    I only imagine his glittering beak

         tucked in a white wing

             while the clouds—

which he has summoned

    from the north—

         which he has taught

             to be mild, and silent—

thicken, and begin to fall

    into the world below

         like stars, or the feathers

               of some unimaginable bird

that loves us,

    that is asleep now, and silent—

         that has turned itself

             into snow.

   — Mary Oliver