Winter River

What catches the eye first? Is it the blue of my cold and turning river? Is it the crystalline islands of porous slush forming in the center, then solidifying and flowing outward? Is it the scalloped gossamer ice lying like a blanket over everything, or perhaps the spruce trees reflected in both water and ice?

It's far too cold to be standing here by the river in December, and the wind is sharp and hollow, but the river tugs at the senses of this old eccentric like a winding tree lined country road, like the music of a waterfall in summer, like a pot of the finest Ceylon tea on a winter night.

Existence at this time of year is something of a penumbral undertaking, but there are little pleasures sprinkled here and there like stardust or glitter or sparkling snowflakes. Wonder of wonders, my companion river is singing clearly this morning. I am her acolyte, and I watch and listen - I take notes and remember.

Whatever other memories fall away, these are the serendipity moments and little happenings which always seem to remain. They are the music of a quiet existence which is random and meandering, of an often benighted spirit which is struggling to be mindful and compassionate and yearning for the light.