Beaming

A sprig of pine rests atop hardened snow.

Rain – ice – snow – repeat.

The dog criss-crosses the yard to diligently follow up on tracks of rabbit, opossum and raccoon. Her body weight is barely enough to sink into the iced snow, yet her steps make a certain crunching noise that suggests otherwise.

Curled up against the arm of the couch I can see where the garden will go in the spring. With the loss of the sister trees, one does not know where April sunlight will be. Perhaps like not knowing where the moon will be in the sky, the mystery of sunlight patterns is unsettling. It is the case in which waiting to know things is an exercise in willingness verses wishing.

Upon catching the sight of the moon from the dining room table, I stood with uncontrollable delight, slipped into boots and scurried outside to beam. In those moments, when one world is inside, warm, going on with normal life and I am outside, alone in the dark, listening to silence, smelling pine and lifting lips up to heaven, the need to find a bridge is most apparent.

Mary Magdalene's gaze still means a lot. It is not explainable how she knew the way, but she did. And it was not bravery or something special she was given at birth. She simply knew the way. When that it is true, what otherwise is there?

New day. New Year. New way of opening unto the last first kiss. The blessings are everywhere for those who have eyes to see. So they say. And I am in love with they.