|Posted by Donna Dawson on November 28, 2013 at 7:30 AM|
It's white and cold and hideous and yet I am called to rejoice. Rejoice in what? The crystalline stuff sucks at boots heavy to begin with. I shiver and trudge; shiver and trudge. The barn door won't give with the pull of the fist. Frozen. Soldered together with more of the white crystals. I shove hard, grumble some more and clomp into the darkness. Warm red glows from under stall doors where heat lamps hold the cold at bay. Water buckets have not yet surrendered to liquid concrete. I can see my breath even here--great puffs of silky white trailing each exhalation. Bah humbug! is my annual cry. I want to hate winter with its chilling grip and its deep blanched mire and its slate skies.
I look into each stall. Balls of fluffed up feathers huddle in fresh straw, stealing warmth where they can. The occasional crow of the rooster tells me that life is unchanged for these creatures. The seasons mean little to their day-to-day life other than to count down the clock to brooding season. Hens still churn out their oval produce. Roosters still march the stall perimeter seeking intruders. Turkeys gobble out their hysterical babble. The ducks quack and sift through the kiddie pool's liquid contents. A water tank heater has made their life pleasant. All are content. The horses munch hay, lazy eyes peering out from beneath a mantle of fuzz--giant teddy bears where sleek steeds stood in warmer climes. I am the only malcontent.
Their calm over-rides my foul frame of mind. I blow out another breath and see the fairy-like mist. There's warmth in this dim haven--body heat from creatures content so long as they have food, water and place away from the arctic blast. I am humbled.
I leave the barn and look to the skies. Fat flakes of snow gyrate through still air, their millions creating a blanket of grey/white to cover the azure. All is silent. Peacefully so. As though a hush has fallen and creation is waiting for the next move by the Creator. I let my eyes pan the scenery, awakened now by the gentle rebuke of the creatures under my care. The ground is thick with wool so white it is blue. Fragile looking twigs hold layers of the stuff giving the trees an air of supplication--as though robed in a white gown and humbly offering themselves to the One who made them. I am shamed. I complain while creation glorifies. The snow is cold--yes--but it is beautiful in its pristine starkness.
My feet no longer trudge. I slip them into the indents made by my grouchier self and follow them back to the warmth of the house. I am fed and watered and sheltered too and I am surrounded by a canvas of purity. What do I have to complain about?