Photo by Melissa F. Kaelin
Monday, January 30, 2012
Faith, Trust and a little bit of Pixie Dust
“All you need is faith, trust and a little bit of Pixie Dust.”
~ Peter Pan
“Peter Pan”
You know the story of “Peter Pan,” but do you know that Peter Pan once inspired the growth of a hospital for children of the poor?
It’s true. I looked it up, having only a faint memory of the history of “Peter Pan” for myself, and confirmed that the story of “Peter Pan,” a work by Sir J.M. Barrie, contributed to the growth of the Great Ormond Street Hospital for Children in London, England — a hospital that still benefits from the story today.
According to the hospital’s website, the hospital opened in 1852 with only two 10-bed wards, and it opened to provide care to the children of the poor while at the same time encouraging clinical research and training for pediatric nursing.
Sir Barrie and his wife had no children of their own, but they loved children dearly and they supported the work of the London hospital for many years.
On December 14, 1929, at Barrie’s suggestion, the cast of a London production of “Peter Pan” visited the hospital, and the cast played out the scene from the nursery for young patients there. The tradition continued over time, and after Barrie gave the hospital all rights to “Peter Pan” that same year, proceeds from the play helped the hospital to grow in size and scope.
There you have it.
Peter Pan, the brave boy with green tights and a feather in his cap, has been a true inspiration of faith and trust in the real world. In fact, during a benefit dinner, the author of Peter Pan’s story claimed that Pan had himself been a patient in the children’s hospital.
Do you believe in Magic?
The story of Peter Pan is magic.
It’s not just a story about the Lost Boys, who would probably be an impossible challenge for any gaurdian if they all lived in the same house — or in the same tree hole. It’s also a story about faith and trust, and renewing genuine feelings which get lost or buried over time, as we all face the trials of a complex world.
It’s not just a story about being grossed out by grown-ups, because they are too serious or they don’t indulge children in their childish games. It’s a story that reminds us that we were all children once, and that childish innocence is pure and unspoiled, unrestrained. It reminds us that we can all be children; even as adults, we can be children-at-heart and be youthful in our daily lives, letting happiness win over hardship.
I surround myself with several stories that remind me to be youthful — stories that remind me not to take life too seriously and that there will always be time left to be a kid. And I believe that this is real magic, when you let yourself go, stop worrying about what other people think and move freely through space and time, as if the point of living is to have fun, as if the meaning of life is to be happy.
Faith and Trust
For me, the concepts of faith and trust have been very difficult these many months. My world has been rocked at its core, but I have challenged myself to continue to do the things that hold meaning for me and the things that make me happy, such as playing childish games and watching “Peter Pan.”
If you like Disney movies, watch the sequel that Disney made to Peter Pan: “Return to Neverland.” Wendy’s daughter Jane is growing up during World War II, and all hope seems to be lost for her happiness. Wendy, as a mother, speaks of Faith and Trust, and Jane says, “Faith, Trust, Pixie Dust?! Mother, those are just words from your stories. They’re not real.”
A song plays, saying “There is no such thing as faith, and trust… and Pixie Dust.” And I bawl every time, because I too have come so precariously close to losing hope.
There are even twins among the Lost Boys, and I notice that these two characters are some of the first in the movie to help Jane find it in herself to “Think of a happy thought,” and fly.
A little bit of Pixie Dust
On Sunday, a young boy helped me to renew my faith and trust, as for me it ebbs and flows with the pain of events that have happened over this past year.
Matt’s younger brother indulged me in playful games, as I drew a map of his own house for him, leading him to clues that would help solve the mystery that was foremost in his mind. Excitingly jumping through the house and speaking at volumes to match our excitement, we bounded around, being together in a genuine way that felt refreshing and full of life.
After a wonderful card game that brought the whole family together — children and grown-ups alike — he knew exactly what movie he wanted to watch that afternoon. The sequel to Peter Pan!
And it was perfect. As Matt and I bundled up with his younger brother all on one couch, we watched the movie, all getting sucked into the plot and watching with suspense. And as the little girl found her faith again and began to believe in Peter Pan and Neverland, and the story ended, I scooped up the little guy with everything I had in me.
He didn’t even wiggle or flinch as I held him so tight, though I confess I was deeply saddened over the loss of my twin brothers at the time. But children don’t care about any of that.
Children love unconditionally. And his unconditional love was right there, restoring me, holding me up in a time of weakness and sorrow.
And with a little bit of Pixie Dust — that magical material that children are born with, but can sometimes dry up as adult problems blow in…
With a little bit of Pixie Dust, I came back. And I am here now, in the present, and I am ready to tackle a brand new day.
“I can fly!”
~ Peter Pan
“Peter Pan”
You know the story of “Peter Pan,” but do you know that Peter Pan once inspired the growth of a hospital for children of the poor?
It’s true. I looked it up, having only a faint memory of the history of “Peter Pan” for myself, and confirmed that the story of “Peter Pan,” a work by Sir J.M. Barrie, contributed to the growth of the Great Ormond Street Hospital for Children in London, England — a hospital that still benefits from the story today.
According to the hospital’s website, the hospital opened in 1852 with only two 10-bed wards, and it opened to provide care to the children of the poor while at the same time encouraging clinical research and training for pediatric nursing.
Sir Barrie and his wife had no children of their own, but they loved children dearly and they supported the work of the London hospital for many years.
On December 14, 1929, at Barrie’s suggestion, the cast of a London production of “Peter Pan” visited the hospital, and the cast played out the scene from the nursery for young patients there. The tradition continued over time, and after Barrie gave the hospital all rights to “Peter Pan” that same year, proceeds from the play helped the hospital to grow in size and scope.
There you have it.
Peter Pan, the brave boy with green tights and a feather in his cap, has been a true inspiration of faith and trust in the real world. In fact, during a benefit dinner, the author of Peter Pan’s story claimed that Pan had himself been a patient in the children’s hospital.
Do you believe in Magic?
The story of Peter Pan is magic.
It’s not just a story about the Lost Boys, who would probably be an impossible challenge for any gaurdian if they all lived in the same house — or in the same tree hole. It’s also a story about faith and trust, and renewing genuine feelings which get lost or buried over time, as we all face the trials of a complex world.
It’s not just a story about being grossed out by grown-ups, because they are too serious or they don’t indulge children in their childish games. It’s a story that reminds us that we were all children once, and that childish innocence is pure and unspoiled, unrestrained. It reminds us that we can all be children; even as adults, we can be children-at-heart and be youthful in our daily lives, letting happiness win over hardship.
I surround myself with several stories that remind me to be youthful — stories that remind me not to take life too seriously and that there will always be time left to be a kid. And I believe that this is real magic, when you let yourself go, stop worrying about what other people think and move freely through space and time, as if the point of living is to have fun, as if the meaning of life is to be happy.
Faith and Trust
For me, the concepts of faith and trust have been very difficult these many months. My world has been rocked at its core, but I have challenged myself to continue to do the things that hold meaning for me and the things that make me happy, such as playing childish games and watching “Peter Pan.”
If you like Disney movies, watch the sequel that Disney made to Peter Pan: “Return to Neverland.” Wendy’s daughter Jane is growing up during World War II, and all hope seems to be lost for her happiness. Wendy, as a mother, speaks of Faith and Trust, and Jane says, “Faith, Trust, Pixie Dust?! Mother, those are just words from your stories. They’re not real.”
A song plays, saying “There is no such thing as faith, and trust… and Pixie Dust.” And I bawl every time, because I too have come so precariously close to losing hope.
There are even twins among the Lost Boys, and I notice that these two characters are some of the first in the movie to help Jane find it in herself to “Think of a happy thought,” and fly.
A little bit of Pixie Dust
On Sunday, a young boy helped me to renew my faith and trust, as for me it ebbs and flows with the pain of events that have happened over this past year.
Matt’s younger brother indulged me in playful games, as I drew a map of his own house for him, leading him to clues that would help solve the mystery that was foremost in his mind. Excitingly jumping through the house and speaking at volumes to match our excitement, we bounded around, being together in a genuine way that felt refreshing and full of life.
After a wonderful card game that brought the whole family together — children and grown-ups alike — he knew exactly what movie he wanted to watch that afternoon. The sequel to Peter Pan!
And it was perfect. As Matt and I bundled up with his younger brother all on one couch, we watched the movie, all getting sucked into the plot and watching with suspense. And as the little girl found her faith again and began to believe in Peter Pan and Neverland, and the story ended, I scooped up the little guy with everything I had in me.
He didn’t even wiggle or flinch as I held him so tight, though I confess I was deeply saddened over the loss of my twin brothers at the time. But children don’t care about any of that.
Children love unconditionally. And his unconditional love was right there, restoring me, holding me up in a time of weakness and sorrow.
And with a little bit of Pixie Dust — that magical material that children are born with, but can sometimes dry up as adult problems blow in…
With a little bit of Pixie Dust, I came back. And I am here now, in the present, and I am ready to tackle a brand new day.
“I can fly!”
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Wintertime
 |
| Holiday lights adorn trees outside of cozy window during the Minnesota winter. Photo by Melissa F. Kaelin |
Maybe we danced in the wintertime
When the twins were small — so small that we marveled at the size of
their little toes and held our hand up to their hands just to see how
much larger our fingers were — we used to dance.
Left to our own devices, as our parents decided to go shopping for home improvement projects, my sister and I would have two bundles of joy to babysit with endless energy pouring out of each one. By this time, the boys would have been 1 or 2 or even 3 years old, which would have made it 1999 or later, and that would have put my sister and myself at the ages of 15 and 14, or 16 and 15, etc.
We were teenagers, busy with our own adolescent dramas unfolding in the midst of a daily schedule of club meetings and band practices. And though by this time we knew how to change a diaper and give two babies with chubby cheeks a bath, complete with bubbles on their heads, the challenge of how to entertain the twins for a full day was something we were still struggling with.
Sometimes we would get frustrated, children that we were, and when the twins cried because their parents were gone, or when they fought with each other over a toy, we would quickly lose our tempers and test the volume of our young voices in an attempt at discipline. That was the exception, though, as we had before us our loving relationship as sisters and our unconditional love for these two radiant beams of light, and we knew how to have a good time, even in the rain and the snow.
I remember dancing
Maybe it was wintertime when we danced, when we ran out of ideas on how to occupy the twins and entertain them in a way that would sufficiently wear them out. Happy for the break of their afternoon naps, we had to keep them active so that they could take their nap during the day and still be able to sleep that night.
So when the winds blew hard or the storms rolled in, or for some other reason the weather wasn't agreeable to the pitter-patter of little feet outside, we would turn to our parents' collection of musical albums and turn on the entertainment.
At the time, we could hardly stomach Led Zeppelin and many of the other remnants of the 70s, so we put in the random classical music compilations that hid in a corner of the stereo closet. Then we scooped up our brothers, one in the arms of each sister, and we danced across the room.
We cradled the twins in our arms, holding one hand out and enclosing arms on the other side, and we swept across the living room floor, mimicking ballroom dances, like the waltz or the tango, and swing. Sometimes we pulled their beloved blankies with light-blue silk sewn into the borders into the dance, covering their faces and playfully swinging the blankies like capes, as we glided across the house.
The twins would smile from ear to ear and giggle with delight as they felt the breeze on their face, sailing across the living room and twisting in circles, faster and faster. They would shriek with happiness when we would offer their bodies a dip lower to gravity, bending our bodies to the ground in what would have otherwise been a romantic motion. Whenever a dance finished, my sister and I would be panting to catch our breath, and our little brothers would immediately offer up their arms from their place on the couch, asking for another and yet another.
These days were usually filled with the smell of cookies baking in the house or a break with lemonade in the afternoon, and the memory is so vivid in my mind that I can practically taste it!
The last dance
I don't remember the last time I danced with my brothers, specifically, though I can remember young Lawrence's gleeful giggle and young Thomas's charming smile. But whenever the last dance was, there was no way that I could have known that it was the last dance.
Now, I shudder at the thought of dancing. I want to, in a way, because it is such a gesture of freedom and such a beautiful form of expression. But how can I when my two littlest dancing partners are gone? In fact, I would have loved to dance with them at my wedding. But my eyes tearing up, that is another subject entirely.
My colleagues at work were kind enough, after the accident, to offer me a gift card to a jazz club, and though it is the perfect gift... A confession: I haven't cashed it in yet.
It is so difficult to think of dancing, and maybe we will go to the jazz club to enjoy the music from the sidelines, but in short, as words fail me...
I guess this is just to say that I miss you, Thomas and Lawrence. And I miss dancing with you. I hope that in some way, somewhere, you will be able to dance again, and shriek and giggle and smile.
It seems so silly to think of you on top of a cloud, beside a guy with a big grey beard, but maybe your souls live on somehow. Maybe somehow your dance isn't done.
Left to our own devices, as our parents decided to go shopping for home improvement projects, my sister and I would have two bundles of joy to babysit with endless energy pouring out of each one. By this time, the boys would have been 1 or 2 or even 3 years old, which would have made it 1999 or later, and that would have put my sister and myself at the ages of 15 and 14, or 16 and 15, etc.
We were teenagers, busy with our own adolescent dramas unfolding in the midst of a daily schedule of club meetings and band practices. And though by this time we knew how to change a diaper and give two babies with chubby cheeks a bath, complete with bubbles on their heads, the challenge of how to entertain the twins for a full day was something we were still struggling with.
Sometimes we would get frustrated, children that we were, and when the twins cried because their parents were gone, or when they fought with each other over a toy, we would quickly lose our tempers and test the volume of our young voices in an attempt at discipline. That was the exception, though, as we had before us our loving relationship as sisters and our unconditional love for these two radiant beams of light, and we knew how to have a good time, even in the rain and the snow.
I remember dancing
Maybe it was wintertime when we danced, when we ran out of ideas on how to occupy the twins and entertain them in a way that would sufficiently wear them out. Happy for the break of their afternoon naps, we had to keep them active so that they could take their nap during the day and still be able to sleep that night.
So when the winds blew hard or the storms rolled in, or for some other reason the weather wasn't agreeable to the pitter-patter of little feet outside, we would turn to our parents' collection of musical albums and turn on the entertainment.
At the time, we could hardly stomach Led Zeppelin and many of the other remnants of the 70s, so we put in the random classical music compilations that hid in a corner of the stereo closet. Then we scooped up our brothers, one in the arms of each sister, and we danced across the room.
We cradled the twins in our arms, holding one hand out and enclosing arms on the other side, and we swept across the living room floor, mimicking ballroom dances, like the waltz or the tango, and swing. Sometimes we pulled their beloved blankies with light-blue silk sewn into the borders into the dance, covering their faces and playfully swinging the blankies like capes, as we glided across the house.
The twins would smile from ear to ear and giggle with delight as they felt the breeze on their face, sailing across the living room and twisting in circles, faster and faster. They would shriek with happiness when we would offer their bodies a dip lower to gravity, bending our bodies to the ground in what would have otherwise been a romantic motion. Whenever a dance finished, my sister and I would be panting to catch our breath, and our little brothers would immediately offer up their arms from their place on the couch, asking for another and yet another.
These days were usually filled with the smell of cookies baking in the house or a break with lemonade in the afternoon, and the memory is so vivid in my mind that I can practically taste it!
The last dance
I don't remember the last time I danced with my brothers, specifically, though I can remember young Lawrence's gleeful giggle and young Thomas's charming smile. But whenever the last dance was, there was no way that I could have known that it was the last dance.
Now, I shudder at the thought of dancing. I want to, in a way, because it is such a gesture of freedom and such a beautiful form of expression. But how can I when my two littlest dancing partners are gone? In fact, I would have loved to dance with them at my wedding. But my eyes tearing up, that is another subject entirely.
My colleagues at work were kind enough, after the accident, to offer me a gift card to a jazz club, and though it is the perfect gift... A confession: I haven't cashed it in yet.
It is so difficult to think of dancing, and maybe we will go to the jazz club to enjoy the music from the sidelines, but in short, as words fail me...
I guess this is just to say that I miss you, Thomas and Lawrence. And I miss dancing with you. I hope that in some way, somewhere, you will be able to dance again, and shriek and giggle and smile.
It seems so silly to think of you on top of a cloud, beside a guy with a big grey beard, but maybe your souls live on somehow. Maybe somehow your dance isn't done.
Saturday, January 14, 2012
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Four Mile Lake
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| Our canoe glides over Four Mile Lake in Northern Minnesota. Photo by Melissa F. Kaelin |
"Hurry gradually"
In December I made two trips to Ohio, where I was born and raised, to see my family.
The first, I had hoped, would be a quiet trip to visit only my immediate family and my grandparents in order to be there for them in a time of sorrow and pain. The second I had hoped not to make, as Christmas for me was a holiday with a very deep and quiet need — a holiday where I needed more than ever before to be safe and secure within my own home, tending to my emotional wounds.
Feeling the pull of family concerns and the desire to be there for everyone in my extended family, I did make the second trip, however. But I was hurting in the moments when I decided to go, when I booked my flights, and when the airline connections were delayed for more than two hours on each end of my trip.
Aside from the fulfilling act of being there for loved ones in Ohio, the one great thing that did come out of my trip came in the form of literature.
An episode with new fiction
Fortunately, before I even got on the plane, I felt compelled to find a book to read while suspended in flight. This may sound normal, but I am not a huge reader. I only read books that steal my attention right away, without faltering, and I rarely read anything but magazines on a plane. In fact, I usually use my time in the sky to write poetry or make entries in my journal.
I also knew at the time that the book I might bring could not be just any book. It needed to be real, the messages ringing true and the quality of the literature rare.
Matt and I went to a bookstore for just this purpose. I ran to all of my old standbys — cynical, satirical books by authors that one bookseller described as “Crazy.” I read frantically down the front and back covers of the books, looking for references to similar authors or other authors altogether. Instead longing for something entirely different, I tried picking up the most inspiring book-turned-to-movie that I knew of, then reading that book’s front and back covers for similar authors.
All to no avail.
We were about to leave, and I was on the verge of giving up, when we saw a book by the author that would fit the part. The title instantly grabbed something deep inside of me: “The World As We Know It.” And when I read the book’s front and back covers to learn about the author, I found that he had published a book before this one.
“Eternal on the Water”
By Joseph Monninger, the book follows one man as he ventures to kayak “Ninety-two miles alone on a river.” Being the nature lover that I am, it was an instant hit with me, and by pitting the protagonist against challenges of love and death, the author immediately engaged me in a deep and meaningful way.
I read the book cover-to-cover during my late December trip, and I came home feeling refreshed and renewed. I was tired and haggard from a brutal trip to Ohio, which found me searching for a hotel in the country after canceling plans with my host due to flight delays, then spending unexpected time with my beloved grandfather in a hospital. But in spite of all that, I had achieved a state of inner peace and calm.
The book, “Eternal on the Water,” was full of little messages bursting with meaning. There were thoughts on love, on life, and on loss, all within a greater context of finding meaning in your life. And the novel spoke to me.
“Hurry gradually.”
That is the advice the narrator gave himself as he ventured to kayak through white rapids and freezing waters down the Allagash River in Maine.
As if to say: Be swift, be purposeful with your life, but be gentle with your spirit. Take things one day at a time.
And though my New Year in 2012 has been devoid of resolutions and much different than what I expected, that is exactly what I am going to try to do. I am going to make an effort to go forward in life, to attempt to realize my dreams, even as a large part of who I am must be left behind.
The first, I had hoped, would be a quiet trip to visit only my immediate family and my grandparents in order to be there for them in a time of sorrow and pain. The second I had hoped not to make, as Christmas for me was a holiday with a very deep and quiet need — a holiday where I needed more than ever before to be safe and secure within my own home, tending to my emotional wounds.
Feeling the pull of family concerns and the desire to be there for everyone in my extended family, I did make the second trip, however. But I was hurting in the moments when I decided to go, when I booked my flights, and when the airline connections were delayed for more than two hours on each end of my trip.
Aside from the fulfilling act of being there for loved ones in Ohio, the one great thing that did come out of my trip came in the form of literature.
An episode with new fiction
Fortunately, before I even got on the plane, I felt compelled to find a book to read while suspended in flight. This may sound normal, but I am not a huge reader. I only read books that steal my attention right away, without faltering, and I rarely read anything but magazines on a plane. In fact, I usually use my time in the sky to write poetry or make entries in my journal.
I also knew at the time that the book I might bring could not be just any book. It needed to be real, the messages ringing true and the quality of the literature rare.
Matt and I went to a bookstore for just this purpose. I ran to all of my old standbys — cynical, satirical books by authors that one bookseller described as “Crazy.” I read frantically down the front and back covers of the books, looking for references to similar authors or other authors altogether. Instead longing for something entirely different, I tried picking up the most inspiring book-turned-to-movie that I knew of, then reading that book’s front and back covers for similar authors.
All to no avail.
We were about to leave, and I was on the verge of giving up, when we saw a book by the author that would fit the part. The title instantly grabbed something deep inside of me: “The World As We Know It.” And when I read the book’s front and back covers to learn about the author, I found that he had published a book before this one.
“Eternal on the Water”
By Joseph Monninger, the book follows one man as he ventures to kayak “Ninety-two miles alone on a river.” Being the nature lover that I am, it was an instant hit with me, and by pitting the protagonist against challenges of love and death, the author immediately engaged me in a deep and meaningful way.
I read the book cover-to-cover during my late December trip, and I came home feeling refreshed and renewed. I was tired and haggard from a brutal trip to Ohio, which found me searching for a hotel in the country after canceling plans with my host due to flight delays, then spending unexpected time with my beloved grandfather in a hospital. But in spite of all that, I had achieved a state of inner peace and calm.
The book, “Eternal on the Water,” was full of little messages bursting with meaning. There were thoughts on love, on life, and on loss, all within a greater context of finding meaning in your life. And the novel spoke to me.
“Hurry gradually.”
That is the advice the narrator gave himself as he ventured to kayak through white rapids and freezing waters down the Allagash River in Maine.
As if to say: Be swift, be purposeful with your life, but be gentle with your spirit. Take things one day at a time.
And though my New Year in 2012 has been devoid of resolutions and much different than what I expected, that is exactly what I am going to try to do. I am going to make an effort to go forward in life, to attempt to realize my dreams, even as a large part of who I am must be left behind.
Monday, January 9, 2012
The Bridge
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| A snow covered bridge stands alone in one of our Minnesota State Parks. Photo by Melissa F. Kaelin |
Pure, infallible snow...
You made it through the work day and navigated through the teeming
rush hour traffic to find your way home. Now, with your cat in your lap
or your dog at your feet, you are relaxing in your favorite chair, or on
your favorite couch. You look beyond the Christmas lights and lingering
holiday decorations to take in the scenery outside your bay window,
only to find that there is no snow. Not a glimmer. Not a flake.
Not even in the northernmost part of the country. Not this year.
Pure and infallible
Let me share with you my own opinion of snow.
I once wrote a poem about snow, though this particular poem was written in between seasons. I came to know the inspiration on a dark night, when the air was cold and crisp, and the grass outside of my home was gilded with frost. I was missing someone, and my heart ached for the changing of the seasons. I yearned for the opportunity to reunite with the person in my thoughts.
So I wrote about the frost. I wrote about the way the street lights played off the tips of each blade of grass, causing them to sparkle and shine. And I wrote about the foreboding, the knowledge frost brings that winter is fast on its way.
Only, I love snow. I crave it — and not in dustings or gentle blankets that fall on the horizon only until they achieve the color white — but in banks and snowdrifts and seas of crystallized water droplets that close an entire city and challenge the traveler.
In fact, I once drove through a snow storm like this, as I wanted to be snowed in at home as opposed to stranded at work, and everyone on the 70 m.p.h. interstate highway was reduced to driving no faster than 20, stopping every so many miles to clear the windshield wipers of the accumulating snowfall. That was in Minnesota, and it was also my first encounter with "thundersnow," during a storm that shot thunder and lightning across a white horizon in a nearly blinding experience. But that's another story.
The frost that I was hoping would yield to snow covered the horizon when I was a college student in Oxford, Ohio. And what I wished for was specifically this: That the frost would yield to "a pure and infallible snow," a feature of nature that is clean and white, and turns even the most industrialized of cities into a quiet natural scene, if only for a moment. My hope was that all that was in transition at the time would finally achieve its goal, that autumn would yield to winter, and that what I considered to be the most beautiful time of year would finally arrive.
And so, it snowed.
The winter of my discontent
Give what reasons you will for the failure of the snow to fall this year.
Especially in central Minnesota, as we cross our fingers in hopes that the snow is not waiting to come all at once, it is difficult to ignore the fact that little has fallen. It is normally resting in heaps around our homes and places of business by this time of year.
In fact, the St. Paul Winter Carnival, the nation's largest and oldest winter festival, is at risk of flopping due to the weather. I don't know if that's a first, but it is undoubtedly rare. It is also very rare to not have a White Christmas in these northern parts.
Here is the reason, for me, that the snow has not fallen this year:
Again, it comes back to loss. Grief. The pain and sorrow of not having someone beautiful in your life — four beautiful someones.
I believe that Nature grieves with us.
It rained for a week in Ohio after four of my immediate family members died. The heavens filled with tears, crying in streams down upon the earth. Once the funeral services were done and four caskets were driven away from the church, a rainbow dared to cross the sky.
A candlelight vigil was held for my twin brothers that night at the middle school, sharing stories of their chess prowess and their natural talents for math and music. And the next day, I saw white storm clouds forming in the south and dark storm clouds forming in the north.
Rays of light broke through the clouds with such radiance on my summer travels that I could almost believe my brothers and my family were still with me here on earth. But now, at least in my world, Nature mourns them.
The reason no snow fell on my Christmas is that something beautiful and sweet was missing. For me, the reason the land looks stark and barren, with naked trees and no snow to cover them, is that something pure is missing from the earth.
Allow me this notion, in the face of my grief, especially as the youngest to pass away were two of the most intelligent, compassionate, faithful teenagers one could ever come to know. Having just turned 13, they were leaders, inspiring everyone around them to goodness and strength.
. . .
Nature is still hurting from such a great loss, so the climate cannot yield to a pure and infallible snow.
Not even in the northernmost part of the country. Not this year.
Pure and infallible
Let me share with you my own opinion of snow.
I once wrote a poem about snow, though this particular poem was written in between seasons. I came to know the inspiration on a dark night, when the air was cold and crisp, and the grass outside of my home was gilded with frost. I was missing someone, and my heart ached for the changing of the seasons. I yearned for the opportunity to reunite with the person in my thoughts.
So I wrote about the frost. I wrote about the way the street lights played off the tips of each blade of grass, causing them to sparkle and shine. And I wrote about the foreboding, the knowledge frost brings that winter is fast on its way.
Only, I love snow. I crave it — and not in dustings or gentle blankets that fall on the horizon only until they achieve the color white — but in banks and snowdrifts and seas of crystallized water droplets that close an entire city and challenge the traveler.
In fact, I once drove through a snow storm like this, as I wanted to be snowed in at home as opposed to stranded at work, and everyone on the 70 m.p.h. interstate highway was reduced to driving no faster than 20, stopping every so many miles to clear the windshield wipers of the accumulating snowfall. That was in Minnesota, and it was also my first encounter with "thundersnow," during a storm that shot thunder and lightning across a white horizon in a nearly blinding experience. But that's another story.
The frost that I was hoping would yield to snow covered the horizon when I was a college student in Oxford, Ohio. And what I wished for was specifically this: That the frost would yield to "a pure and infallible snow," a feature of nature that is clean and white, and turns even the most industrialized of cities into a quiet natural scene, if only for a moment. My hope was that all that was in transition at the time would finally achieve its goal, that autumn would yield to winter, and that what I considered to be the most beautiful time of year would finally arrive.
And so, it snowed.
The winter of my discontent
Give what reasons you will for the failure of the snow to fall this year.
Especially in central Minnesota, as we cross our fingers in hopes that the snow is not waiting to come all at once, it is difficult to ignore the fact that little has fallen. It is normally resting in heaps around our homes and places of business by this time of year.
In fact, the St. Paul Winter Carnival, the nation's largest and oldest winter festival, is at risk of flopping due to the weather. I don't know if that's a first, but it is undoubtedly rare. It is also very rare to not have a White Christmas in these northern parts.
Here is the reason, for me, that the snow has not fallen this year:
Again, it comes back to loss. Grief. The pain and sorrow of not having someone beautiful in your life — four beautiful someones.
I believe that Nature grieves with us.
It rained for a week in Ohio after four of my immediate family members died. The heavens filled with tears, crying in streams down upon the earth. Once the funeral services were done and four caskets were driven away from the church, a rainbow dared to cross the sky.
A candlelight vigil was held for my twin brothers that night at the middle school, sharing stories of their chess prowess and their natural talents for math and music. And the next day, I saw white storm clouds forming in the south and dark storm clouds forming in the north.
Rays of light broke through the clouds with such radiance on my summer travels that I could almost believe my brothers and my family were still with me here on earth. But now, at least in my world, Nature mourns them.
The reason no snow fell on my Christmas is that something beautiful and sweet was missing. For me, the reason the land looks stark and barren, with naked trees and no snow to cover them, is that something pure is missing from the earth.
Allow me this notion, in the face of my grief, especially as the youngest to pass away were two of the most intelligent, compassionate, faithful teenagers one could ever come to know. Having just turned 13, they were leaders, inspiring everyone around them to goodness and strength.
. . .
Nature is still hurting from such a great loss, so the climate cannot yield to a pure and infallible snow.
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