Monday, January 12, 2015

Winter's Snow



On this bleak, grey, England winter's day, I remember the comforting quiet of snow. Stan loved the snow. He would sit for hours, watching it. When we first began to talk to each other, he told me that he wanted to move to the Northeastern coast of England, near Whitby, where he said they had a 'proper winter'. Proper winter? I had moved to England from the west coast of Florida, just a year before, and the bits of snow I had encountered in London, that year, were quite enough, for me, thank you. But he wanted to see more of it.

When he was a little boy, he told me, he used to cry when the snow melted. I will always remember that sweet image of him, as a child, wiping his tears as the snow disappeared into the boggy ground.

Today I understand his love of snow. It turns the grey days white with promise. It makes everything new again. Walking into the hills, the biting wind brushing my cheeks, I hear my footsteps crunch against the frozen ground. Bare branches glisten with ice droplets. Black crows hop and peck their beaks into the frost covered earth in search of food. Blessed sun warms the slick pathway climbing upward, past blanketed horses, their breath steaming from cold nostrils, past wooly sheep, huddled against stone fences, toward the summit, hidden by misty cloud. I could get lost up there. It wouldn't be a bad way to go.

When I was young, living in Montana, and contemplating ending my time on this earth, (which I did, often, in those days), I decided that the easiest way to go would be to climb to the top of some mountain, and wait for the cold to envelop me, wrapping me in its blue tendrils, until I couldn't feel a thing. I would just get sleepy, I thought, and pass peacefully away. Perhaps I'd stay frozen until spring, when some hiker would come across my mummified corpse. Or perhaps the animals would use me for food, and my sun-bleached bones would be all that they'd find. At least my life would have served some purpose, I thought. It was a twisted comfort for my tortured soul, back then.

These days, my grief is deep and all-encompassing.  But I am not the tortured soul I was. As much as the loss of my beloved husband has broken me, I do not feel defeated. I have been softened by this experience. His death was tragic, true. I would not wish this pain on anyone. It is the worst thing that has happened to me. And it has made me tender-hearted.

Staying soft is difficult. My natural instinct is to protect myself from the prospect of further hurt and sorrow. Leaving myself open to others means I most certainly will feel the pain of loss, again. Perhaps not a loss that cuts so deeply. But pain and loss, nonetheless.

My husband understood the importance of staying soft.  He knew deep sorrow. He experienced trauma and turmoil as a young lad. He used many salves, through the years, to bind and heal those wounds. But he did not let them make him hard and bitter. He used his sorrow to reach out to others. He had a deep empathy for those who suffered. He had seen much suffering, himself.

Today, I find a different kind of hope in winter's snow. I feel nurtured and warmed by its white blanket. I like to nestle into its silence. There's less frantic activity when snow closes in. People slow their pace. Buses and trains and planes come to a standstill. Folks stay home, and make space for their thoughts, and for each other.

When snow comes to my hills, I open the curtains, build a warm fire, and pour myself a hot drink from the kettle. And I remember him, up all night, seated at the window, snowflakes falling.

7 comments:

  1. Oh gosh Tricia, what a beautiful writer you are. You paint a picture with words I can see, feel, touch, taste and smell. It's a true gift. I'm sorry the subject matter, the inspiration, was such tragedy. I see the pain, as well as the beauty, in each snowflake. xoxo

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    1. Thank you so much for your kind words about my writing, Stephanie. I am glad that they resonate with you. I am sorry we both have to be here, with these losses, without our beloveds. But I am thankful to have this place and the other writers, like you. xx

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  2. Tricia, I am amazed and emboldened by your description of Stan. I'm sure he had many sides, and here you lovingly cup his reverie and awe of snowflakes and snow, and hold it out to us. Childlike wonder. It's a trait we say we cherish, but how often do we give ourselves over to it? That Stan was so respectful of mother nature, catching her glee in each snowflake gives me hope that in my hustle bustle world, others exist that are in awe of snowflakes too. You demonstrate that we are loved by our wonderment.

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    1. Yes he had many sides. Irritating ones. He could be stubborn. But what I would not give to have that stubborn, irritating man back in my arms again! From the time I first met him, I was amazed that he still had that childlike quality in him. I loved that about him. His life had not been easy. But he could still reach into that place. Thanks for your comments.

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  3. The way you have written this, Tricia, slows the rush of my thoughts down, and I join you by the window watching the snow, and walking through the countryside, remembering our spouses who died, remembering what brought them joy, and how they suffered in their lives. Staying soft is difficult because we want to protect ourselves from more sorrow. But now we understand the suffering of others, and we cannot close our hearts. Beautiful words.

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    1. Thank you, Mark. I loved waking up and seeing him, there, watching it. He would get all excited about it. Like a little boy. I loved that. And I feel like I need to stay soft, like he was. To honour him. To live. Really live. x

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  4. Thank you, Tricia. Yes, staying soft and open is so difficult because I feel a vulnerability now I didn't feel before. I also love, after looking at comments, how the things that irritated us about the person seem utterly insignificant now. Actually, it's clear how many of the things I blamed on Vic are still here because they are my characteristics and were all along.

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